


The Baroque Murder of Saint-Denis

by oneinspats



Category: The Musketeers, The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Athos needs to get over his stupid man pain, F/M, I can't write anything unless there's a murder mystery, M/M, Richelieu is an old cat woman, Richelieu's internal monologues are ridiculous and melodramatic, Thank God for Porthos, Treville is done with everyone and everything
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-27
Updated: 2016-11-03
Packaged: 2018-05-29 12:03:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 30,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6374026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oneinspats/pseuds/oneinspats
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What is says on the tin except not. </p><p>Murder. Spies. Musketeers. Politics. Emotions everywhere. The Spanish being sneaky. Day of the Dupes was never forgotten. </p><p>Takes place after the end of season one. Ends up sort of negating pretty much everything in season two.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Good Friday, 1633. It is a late March day and there are omens afoot. In a small town on the east coast of the Italian peninsula, called Andria, a thorn from the side of Christ bleeds. In Spain, an activated image of the virgin Mary weeps with tears that are salty and human. These are all rational miracles that confirm the grace and goodness of God. When a workman sees the weeping Virgin Mother he is struck dumb and cannot speak of the glory he has seen. He will remain thus until Sunday when Christ rises again in perpetual sacrifice of his body for his people. The workman will then weep himself weary and will pray for all Christians and will be able to speak Latin fluently as a gift from the Lord Himself.

But this has not happened, yet. Instead, he is dumb. The thorn from the side of Christ oozes lifeblood onto the alter upon which it is bestowed. All are in awe and terror at the sight.

In Paris, loud, filthy, muddy, Paris, the King is exiting Mass with his wife and other courtiers. They had decided to attend at Notre Dame instead of in their private chapel which was their usual habit.

Louis, to his First Minister, 'I must let the people of Paris see me. After everything that has happened recently, with the Queen and my mother before that and Savoy, I must let the people see me.'

Richelieu could not argue with this although he is not pleased. Double the guards, then, he instructs the captain of the musketeers. Treville rolls his eyes, Already have, your eminence. Richelieu, undeterred, insists that it be tripled then. Red guards and musketeers. I will not endanger the life of my king without reason.

In Paris the king leaves through the gloriously carved, although already quite old, doors of the Notre Dame. He turns around to Anne and holds out his arm for her. Richelieu stands behind the couple. Treville off to the side with his men.

A scream.

From one of the windows a body drops. Then does not, a rope around its neck catches it, the head flies off, then the body continues to fall. It lands with a sound.

Later, Richelieu will say that it was a triptych. One of those stilted, formal ones with three sets of figures, three moments of action captured, three scenes to pay attention to.

Later, Treville will snort, 'That is not how such situations work.'

Perhaps, the cardinal will concede. But he cannot rid himself of the sound of the body hitting the ground and the vision of the head flying and the feeling that it was all too much of a portrait for his taste.

 

The blood of Christ from the thorn in his side flows.

 

On the left portal of the Notre Dame is a statue of Saint Denis holding his head which had been severed from his body up on Montmartre. The saint had picked up his head and then walked six miles preaching before finally dying upon the spot where there is now the present Basilica named for the dead Denis. The man who had been pushed from the window of the Notre Dame did not get up, dust himself off, and pick up his head in order to preach. In order to have final words heard as is the right for all men. His name, Richelieu knows, is Pepin-Denis de Bellevievre. He was no saint. He still ought not to have died the way he died.

 

 

Treville stomps into Tuileries palace. He does not walk. He does not care that he does not walk. He does not care that he is causing a scene. What he does care about is the dead man in his barracks upon whom Aramis can find no sign of identity or struggle or _anything_.

'Where is the cardinal?' He growls to one of the red guards loitering in a hallway.

'With the king.'

'And they are?'

'In the gardens.'

He stomps off in the general direction of the gardens and finds the cardinal and king at the archery butts. It is the king who is viciously shooting the target with more vigour than aim. He is hoarse, upset, reeling around when especially excited. Upon seeing Treville he exclaims, 'this is how they treat their king, captain! They kill a man in front of me! The mob, captain, it cannot be trusted!'

Treville, 'as you say, your majesty.' He and the cardinal exchange nods. Louis returns to the work of making a pin-cushion out of the straw Spanish soldier. His aim, when he tries, is exceptional. Treville knows that the king is one of the best shots in Paris which is something that brings him no small amount of pride although he, himself, had little to do with this. He has met other kings and queens and dukes and emperors and there is a moment with every one of them where he wonders: what would it be to work for _you_ instead of my current master? And with each of them he is eternally grateful that it is Louis who is his king. The sun is shining on France and France's monarch. It makes his youth inspirational, it reminds old war-horses that there is hope for the future. Even if that hope is currently having a fit in the gardens.

 'Any news, captain?' Richelieu asks, leaning with weight on both a statue and a longbow.

'Aramis can find nothing on the man's body to identify him. No sign of struggle, either, although I do not think it was self-murder.'

'A blessing for his family, once we know them,' the king says. 'Although, cardinal you are the man for this question, what is the state of his soul since he died in violence?'

'That, your majesty, is more a question for his confessor whom I was not. But so long as he died in the true faith I do not see a problem for his burial on holy ground. It will not put the other souls at risk.' Richelieu mulls on this for a minute. 'And perhaps he will have more peace there than he ever had in this life.'

The face Treville makes causes Louis to snort then laugh. His mood is evidently shifting and he hums as he returns to his post. He motions for the target to be moved further back and when he lifts his bow it is with poise and concentration. The arrows hits true. A throat shot. Treville himself could not have done better.

'You know this man?' The captain turns to the cardinal.

'Knew him, captain. Pepin-Denis de Bellevievre. His family are minor nobles from Normandy. They have a small estate of middling means and he, being the third son, came to court to attempt to make something of himself.'

'Was he successful?'

'I couldn't say. He enjoyed gaming and women and had a temper, although nothing out of the ordinary.'

'Any enemies?'

An eloquent shrug. Richelieu pushes himself off the statue and hands the bow to an attendant. His face is the neutral that Treville is used to and he follows after the cardinal once they have excused themselves from the king. Richelieu takes them away from the courtiers and the archery butts towards the covered promenade and the Seine.

Being March, Paris finds itself in a final frost of the winter season before spring truly takes hold of the city. Their breath hovers in the air once they are in the shade of the promenade and no longer warmed by mid-afternoon sun. Early buds have been hurt by the sudden frost. They sit brown and dead on the branches. It is too much for Richelieu. He does not believe in omens. He cannot afford to believe in omens.

'He had enemies, captain. To answer your question. There was a mistress, a friend of the queen. You can probably find her over in her majesty's favourite portion of the gardens right now. However, I cannot help but think this is more than an irate husband.'

Treville agrees. Too public for his taste. Too brutal. However, he turns to Richelieu, I _do_ think it's personal in some aspects. Brutality is often saved for personal grievances.

To this Richelieu says nothing. He turns away and begins to walk back towards the king. Treville, with a growl, grabs the cardinal's arm.

'If there is something you are not saying that could help us—'

'I only ever act in the interest of France and her king.'

'That is not an answer.'

'Isn't it?'

Gently, Richelieu removes Treville's hand from his sleeve. It is warm despite the cool weather. He lets it drop but knows that the heat will remain in his fingers long after the captain has taken himself off to the musketeer barracks.

They are standing close between trees which are in those perfect straight lines of perfect symmetry so favoured by France's Medici queens — Catherine and Marie both. Treville is tense and whether it is from the cold or the situation or Richelieu's presence the cardinal cannot discern.

'For the sake of France and Louis, I pray that this is merely the case of an angry husband pushed too far. Or gambling debts left uncollected for too long.' Richelieu speaks softly so Treville must remain close to hear him. 'But do not hold your breath that it will be so simple.'

'And if it is not, can I count on your cooperation?'

'You may always count on my cooperation, captain.'

The doubt is written across Treville's face. Richelieu bows and wishes him good day. A foul end to Holy Week but he cannot help but feel excited. But feel alive. He returns to the king with a smile on his face. He assures Louis that the case is in capable hands. He trusts the captain to sort it out before mass on Sunday. He trusts that they may all rest easy in their beds. Perhaps this is over-enthusiastic and hopeful of him but there is sun in the sky and captain has warm hands and these things appear to signify something although he, as always, is not a man for omens.

 

 

 

Aramis throws himself into a chair and takes the offered wine from Porthos.

'I still cannot find nothing on him. The captain isn't going to be happy.'

Porthos sighs into his mug. 'Especially as he's coming back from the palace and the presence of _his highness_ the red eminence.'

A grin, Aramis and Porthos cheers each other. Hearing a commotion at the door they turn to see d'Artagnan swooping in with another bottle.

'Thought we'd all need it,' he explains.

'I always knew you were a good man,' Porthos says.

'Before or after the duel?'

'You're fault entirely on that one, my friend.'

D'Artagnan owns this to be true. To business, he says. I asked around and of course no one saw anything, no one heard anything, no one appears to be aware of anything before, during or after mass. I swear if I never speak to another chapter canon of the Notre Dame it will be too soon.

'Perfect,' Aramis mutters. 'This is great news to add to the useless body. How is a man thrown from a window with a rope around his neck without a struggle? Surely at some point he would have fought.'

Porthos, 'are we sure it isn't suicide?'

'I'm confident.' Aramis inspects the bottom of his mug then pours himself another glass. 'I suppose he could have been drugged at some point. That would explain the lack of struggle. Slip him something then do the deed. But he would have to have been moved—unless, d'Artagnan did you see any sign of possible poisoning at the seen?'

'Nothing that would suggest it. No food, no drink — nothing out of the ordinary. Also, didn't he scream?'

Shrugging Aramis notes that all they heard was a scream but as the source, that is uncertain.     

Porthos says that well, there is nothing for it right now. Tomorrow might bring something more tangible than a mystery body and a cathedral empty of evidence.

Later that evening, after d'Artagnan slips away home to be discreetly private with Constance and Porthos has ascertained that Athos is still alive and sleeping on his side and still has money in his purse and everything of value still on his person, Aramis says 'game of cards?'

Porthos replies, 'we'll be less obnoxious in my room. I saw the captain return and he looked like the Furies on wheels.'

'Porthos.'

'What?'

'He always looks like the Furies on wheels.'

'Yes, but it was especially bad. My room, come on. I'm going to bet my fortune on this next game.'

Aramis laughs, claps him on the back as they march up the stairs, 'oh good. I will get the three sous you have to your name and your hat.'

They settle at the small table wedged in the corner and play until bells ring signifying the beginning of a new day. The soundscape of Paris maps itself out as one parish begins then others follow and above the din are the heavy, cloying bells of Notre Dame.

 

Morning. Saturday. In the way that Christ was hurriedly buried in a cave on the Sabbath between death and resurrection so too is the body of the dead man hurriedly sent to the local parish church to be lain to rest in the early hours of the morning. A discreet mass is to be said for it _is_ Holy Saturday and really they ought to wait until after the Easter Vigil. But the father is accommodating and understands the need for a quick burial. Aramis, remembering his once-upon-a-time vocational calling says a prayer for the soul of the man wondering if it will reach down into purgatory and make his penance a little _less_ and a little more bearable. He does not contemplate his own ever-after. He does not count his sins and sins and sins. It is early morning. He has not slept. He feels like a horse has collided with him and he wants to cry because there are two people tearing his heart apart and this has never happened before. He always has loved. He has never felt _passion_.

           

Treville goes to find Athos once he is awake and shaved. 'We have a name for the dead man. Where is Aramis?'

'He and Porthos just took the body to St. Catherine's.'

'Well, we will need to have it brought back. The man is a de Bellevievre and his family will want to the body returned.'

Athos takes the news in stride. De Bellevievre — the name conjures the face of a woman in black and a husband with crypto-Huguenot sympathies. The son he had never met and so the name of Pepin-Denis means little to him.

'The cardinal knew him which means he was the cardinal's man.'

'Currently?'

'I got the impression no. Once upon a time, but not anymore. Bellevievre had a mistress apparently, one of the women of the queen's entourage. Go around today and see what you can find. Also check up on her husband. But tread carefully.'

'Anything else?'

'I'm going to do some digging into the gaming dens around court. Apparently he owed money. We'll regroup tonight.'

They part. Treville watches as Athos greets Aramis and Porthos at the gate, indicating their need to turn and retrieve the no-longer-mystery body. D'Artagnan shows up positively glowing. Athos clearly rolls his eyes. Aramis' smile is lewd. Porthos just ruffles the boy's hair. They troop off into the din of Paris.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I know it's Holy Week but things happen."

Monsieur Jean-Francoise Nicolas de la Fontaine is the man to see about gambling debts in court. He is ensconced in his family's home in Paris on the right bank although, Treville knows, it is rumoured he wishes to build in the more fashionable left now that the cardinal has made the Marais habitable with the construction of his _Palais_. Only partially complete the building already draws the longing gaze of the king himself let alone the courtiers.

'If it isn't the Comte de Treville!' Fontaine launches himself up from his lounging position amongst friends and admirers.

'I prefer Captain while I am on duty, monsieur.'

'Apologies. Of course, captain. And really, the title must take some getting used to since it is so new to the family. How is Trois-Villes? I hear the Basque country is beautiful this time of year. Well, when you are playing Comte on your off hours you should come to one of my parties. I haven't seen you at them and really, they are the place to be. It would be an honour.'

'I thank you for the invitation.' Treville shifts. Looks over Fontaine's shoulder to the other men and women. Most he recognizes from Louis' inner circle. They are watching them with open curiosity and if Treville were to be asked he would go so far as to say they were gawping. 'May we speak privately?'

Fontaine nods, Of course, captain. Is it business? I am a man of cunning in commercial affaires. Even the cardinal's man Godefroy has asked for my advice from time to time. To the guests collected behind him, Entertain yourselves. My staff is at your service.

The room Fontaine has chosen for an office is small, mostly wooden with a distinctly thirteenth-century feeling to it. There are carvings that remind Treville of the old medieval tower in Oloron, where he was born. His father had taken him in once to meet the local comte in order to ask for a commission for the young Jean-Armand. The room had smelled old and contained. Fontaine's is much the same. The effect is to cause disquiet and restlessness in the occupants. A window is open behind Fontaine and Treville can see a small alleyway which divides the gardens from the stables.

'What can I do for you, captain?'

'Do you know a Pepin-Denis de Bellevievre?'

'I do. Why?'

Treville relaxes into his stance and regards the other man for a long moment. He can see tension in Fontaine's shoulders. That tension had heightened when Bellevievre's name was mentioned. Treville waits. It is loathsome for him to admit but one trick he has picked up after long association with the cardinal is the tactic of remaining in silence until someone feels the need to fill it. Treville is, after all, not a man of many words.

Fontaine remains quiet for longer than anticipated however, when it becomes clear to him that the captain is willing to stand there and stare with an unpleasant facial expression until information is forthcoming, he gives in.

'He used to come around.'

'To your parties?'

'Yes. Initially. Then to private affaires. Invitation only.'

'I hear he owes you money.'

Fontaine smiles. Treville raises an eyebrow.

'Half the men of wealth and consequence in Paris owe me money. My family is like yours, captain. Except I am in the position your father was in — moneyed but without title. Maybe I'll go and buy myself a province and become a count. Maybe I'll leave that to my son. At the moment I am content with how things are balanced.'

'How much does Bellevievre owe you?'

Fontaine opens a drawer and withdraws a small book bound in soft leather. He consults it for a minute then says, 'two thousand _livre_ give or take.' When the captain continues to not react Fontaine tucks the book away and spreads his hands open. 'What is this about, captain? Is Fontaine unable to pay? Has he sent you to scare me into calling off the debt?'

'No, he hasn't. And I cannot say if the debt will be paid or not.'

'Then why are you here?'

'Where were you yesterday? Where did you hear Mass?'

'Local parish. I'm on the outs with her majesty the gracious queen Anne right now. I thought it best to lay low for a week or two before showing my face in court again. I went to Saint-Paul-in-the-Field.'

'Before?'

'Ah. I was with a lady of consequence. Don't give me that condemning facial expression, captain! I know it's Holy Week but things happen. Anyway, I went to confession before mass and took my yearly communion. Or are we supposed to do it more than once a year, now? I can never keep up with that. Regardless, I was in bed, then confession, then Mass, then home to my wife and son. Now I'm not going to answer any more questions until you inform me what this is all about.'

'Bellevievre was murdered yesterday after morning Mass.'

Fontaine's shock takes over his body. He gasps, steps back, puts a hand to his chest. Then, slowly, he sits down. Murdered! He cannot believe it. He just saw Bellevievre two days before and he seemed in good spirits. Said he would be up to date on payments soon. Murdered! How? Blood of Christ that is not a kind way to go.

Treville frowns at the display. There is genuine shock, the grief is false definitely, but the shock he can read well enough. 'You saw him Wednesday?'

'Yes, captain. Christ's blood.'

'And he said he would be able to pay you back?'

'Well, some of it. He also owes a Milady, he never provided her surname, but she hasn't called in her debts, yet. He said he would be able to pay me next week.'

Treville presses him for more information. Did he say who was giving him the money? Did he say if he was going to visit anyone on Thursday or Friday? Did he give you _any_ details? Fontaine says no to everything. He is flustered, 'Captain I have told you all I know!' Treville finally backs off.

'All right, if you think of anything else send for me.'

Fontaine, 'of course. Yes. Of course.'

Treville takes his leave and goes out through the front then double backs behind the house. An alley ay with a scalable wall is present and he climbs up towards the office of Fontaine. With the window still open he can hear a murmured conversation between Fontaine and another person however it is too feint and soon Treville gives up, dropping down and making his way to the barracks.

 

 

In the Palais-Cardinal, particularly the habitable parts of the Palais that were completed, Richelieu contemplates the death of Bellevievre. Or, rather, he is contemplating Aristotle and Galen. There is much to contemplate in their works — the very nature of the heavens and earth are, naturally, worthy of deep meditation. Is such lonesome, unguided activity necessarily wise? The authorities are divided. For, despite the decrees of Trent and the reforms of the Church in the wake of the Protestant heresies there are still many who consider the notion of an intimate relationship between mere layman and the Divine to be as risky a business as letting the natives of the New World take the cowl.

Erasmus, despite his many failings, has made the point in his writings, _ad nausea,_ of the benefits of a meditative relationship with one's own thoughts and prayers and mediations with the Lord. Granted, there most of Erasmus' advice (useful advice, that is) on relationships must end.

At the moment, truly, honestly, Richelieu is reading Loyola's _Spiritual Exercises_ while contemplating the balance of politics in court and, as stated, the death of Bellevievre. One does not become first minister of France without being able to multi-task. He remembers reading More and finding the Englishman distasteful in his public self-flagellation and excessive, pointless, martyrdom. The curious case of Desiderus' private life also crops up as it leads to a conundrum that he has been contemplating for many years now. The conundrum of a certain Captain Jean-Armand du Peyrer, comte de' Treville, or Trois-Villes or Tresville, depending on which document one inspects as to the family ownership and acquisition of land and title. It is all the same man, though, in the end. What is a name?

Three villages. Triptych of a death scene. Three days between Christ's death and resurrection. Three forms of God: the father, the son, the holy-spirit. The third day of creation brought land and sea and all the creatures upon this earth. God said they were good. Threes. Richelieu thinks this important. Three sons of Marie de' Medici, although only two acknowledged, Louis and Gaston. Three Musketeers, before the boy d'Artagnan arrived. The third disciple was John, the favoured one of Christ. Three, three, three.

He thinks about Galen and the charts of the humours that make up human temperament and health. Before him is a plate of melon. It is March. He knows he shouldn't be eating such cold and damp fruit at such a time of year. He does it anyway. He thinks about Treville. He drinks a glass of wine. It is dry, earthy, and warm; it is drunk entirely to counteract the effect of the melon.

But, return again to the main contemplation. The issue of three. There is the royal family who number three, King, Queen, and Prince. Although _that_ is a conundrum for another time. There is the holy family of three: Mary, Joseph, and Jesus. He knows Treville does not trust him. He knows Treville knows that he knows that Treville knows about the incident with the Queen the previous summer. The issue of course is that Treville lacks all facts. He cannot make an accurate decision about whom to trust with what if he does not have all the facts. And oh Richelieu can feel his palms itch and he is suddenly restless. The day is going slowly. He thinks: I will send for Treville. I will explain everything to him. About the king and his fit of peak in the wine that had been an order. Treville understands about those kinds of orders. He has taken them before. He understands the disastrous consequences that can be wrought by them upon occasion. He _would_ understand, Richelieu thinks. Hopes. Prays. Then, once he understands, he will understand why Richelieu cannot explain everything about Bellevievre to him.

Richelieu looks at himself in the reflection of the window pain which is beside him. 'I'm being an idiot,' he says.

He sends round a messenger to invite Treville over anyway.

 

 

The area of the Tuileries gardens that has been dubbed _la cour de la Reine_ is on the other side of the covered promenade from Treville and Richelieu's brief conversation the day prior. The queen, heavily pregnant and glowing, greats the arrival of the musketeers warmly. That she is outside after such a shock as the previous day, and in such cool weather, causes Aramis some concern. He schools his face into one of condolence and solemnity. Porthos snorts.

'We have come to bring condolences for the event yesterday,' Athos says, taking the lead. 'May we speak with you privately?'

Anne nods, dismisses her women who walk a short distance away. As far as court goes, this is more privacy than Athos had expected. With a quick glance between his compatriots he launches into a truncated version of what they are here for. A friend, he asks. Surely he had some amongst your women? Perhaps a bosom-friend of a sister or his mother?

With a delicate look, verging on arch, Anne asks, 'do you mean to inquire if he has a mistress amongst my ladies in waiting?'

Athos gives a slight nod. Anne rolls her eyes. Why, she continues, is it that as soon as infidelity is an issue men assume that women cannot handle a forthright conversation. Yes, to answer your question, I believe he had one. But please, for her sake, be discreet. Her husband, you understand.

Athos says that he does. Anne is not looking at him. She is not looking at anyone. The mood is quickly upon her, this departure from her body, then it is gone. She smiles at them. It is a courtly smile.

'Excuse me,' she motions to her women. The musketeers withdraw. Anne follows them out of the corner of her eye. Her mouth is dry and she feels nauseous. A quiet moment with one women in particular and the musketeers are motioned back into her presence. 'This is Madame de Rivelle. She was a...particular friend of Monsieur de Bellevievre.'

Athos, with a ducked head, ploughs ahead, 'Madame, we would not ask this of you if it was not imperative to finding a man's killer.'

Rivelle nods to him. Her head is high. Athos admires her for a moment then reminds himself that he had long ago forsaken the company of women.

'I was Denis' mistress, if that is what you are asking.'

'Your husband, was he aware?'

She tilts her head as a sort-of shrug. She replies, 'I don't believe so. He is not the sort of man to hide away such knowledge and skulk in corners plotting a man's death.'

'Where was he yesterday during Mass?'

'With me, monsieur. And our daughter and son. We were with,' she glances over her shoulder. 'The duchess there, and her husband the duke. A recently returned comte from Spain and the _Seigneurie de Montpellier_ , who is visiting Paris for the next few months.'

'And after Mass?'

She frowns at him. 'He never left my side, monsieur.'

'Could your husband have hired a man to do the deed?'

'Could he have? Oh yes. _Would_ he have? Never. As I said, he is not the sort for such skull drudgery. He is no red eminence. He does not play such filthy games. For all his faults my husband is, at least, a forthright man. You _always_ know where you stand with him.'

'Well then, do you have any idea who would want to do such a thing?'

Rivelle's face becomes one of great contemplation. She looks at Athos for a long moment, then to the queen, then to the palace.

'He was scared, recently.' She is musing aloud more than speaking. It is the voice of remembrance. Although, for her sake, it does not sound pained. 'He said he had received a disturbing letter. Within the letter was this.' From within her sleeve she withdraws two cards. One is the fool, the other the hanged man. She hands them to Athos. No more words are spoken.

 

As they leave the gardens Porthos holds Aramis back.

'What was that about?'

'What was what about?'

'Your behaviour. I've never seen you that uncomfortable — well, all right, I have — but seems like a bad time to be having some fit of nerves. Mad man on the loose and all.'

Aramis tries to shrug him off. His heart is hammering and Porthos, as always, becomes more entrenched. He folds his arms. Aramis groans internally, _he's folded his arms._

'Who is your current bad decision, Aramis?'

'No one.'

'I don't believe you.'

Aramis attempts to look at Porthos with pleading eyes. The bigger musketeer only rolls his in response.

'Don't you think I can handle myself?'

Porthos raises an eyebrow. His posture indicates the question of: shall I count the ways?

'Truly, it's no one. There had been someone, once. But now it's no one.'

With a sigh Porthos relents. He is grudging in his movements as they walk towards Athos and d'Artagnan. If there is something I can help with, he says before they are in ear-shot. But Aramis shakes his head. No, old friend, not right now. Not with this.

 

 

Late afternoon. Treville stares at the messenger. The messenger stares back.

'I'm not going,' he repeats himself.

'His eminence said that if you came he would fill you in on certain details he has recently come into possession of concerning the current problem hanging over your head.'

The captain gives the messanger a dirty look. 'Fine. I'll come along. This better be worth it.'

To this there is no response beyond a bow and the indication that they should be going now. Treville, once mounted and as they move through the streets, asks if the cardinal ever considers how inconsiderate he can be about other people's time.

The messenger replies, 'wasting time is akin to murder. So his eminence would say. I do not believe he is keen to waste his own, let alone yours.'

This, Treville owes to be true of Richelieu. The only time the man holds more dear than information, power and money is time. Mostly, because, there are so many hours in a God-given day to do things in order to accumulate _more_ of the aforementioned information, power and money.

The streets are crowded as the people begin to prepare for the Easter Vigil. Candle-makers are selling two-fold and wives are frantic in their work to make ready for one of the holiest days of the year. Easter Vigil upon them and where does Treville find himself? But in the presence of Richelieu and with a murder on his hands and a frantic king who wants a quick solution.

Richelieu, to Treville, has always been an enigma until recently when nuisance took over. Reluctant ally, at times, as well. That Richelieu asks for the benefit of France and her king is something Treville had never questioned until recently. Oh, the man would go to great lengths and use tactics that Treville considers despicable and dishonourable, but _treason_. Murder of the _queen_ \- that was beyond the pale. Perhaps nuisance was too weak a word. Yet, the cardinal remains, as ever, at the king's side. The days of Marie de' Medici had taught him well, Treville muses. Never be too far from the king. Ever.

They dismount in a quiet courtyard. That this had once been uninhabitable swampland seems a fantasy. It is marble and glass and water and greenery. If this is the building after only half a year of construction he wonders at the marvellous structure that it will be once complete.

'I would have had you dine with me at the palace but I needed to oversee some details here. Lemercier, whilst brilliant, needs occasional hand-holding,' Richelieu greets as he sweeps Treville in through halls and towards a finely appointed, if still unfinished, room. 'But I trust this is satisfactory for a light dinner. Counter-tradition, I know. But I cannot claim to be feeling too hungry after recent events.'

Treville agrees. He is still admiring the building and wonders how long it will be until the king asks for it as a gift. Sitting in the chair at the head of the table is a small tabby cat. Richelieu scoops the creature up and hands it to Treville, 'this is Thisbe.' He says it without further explanation and Treville is left holding the squirming animal until it escapes and dashes down the hall.

They settle down as wine and fruit is brought in. Treville cannot help but feel anxious now that the inspection of the building is complete for after the awe comes the knowledge that this is, indeed, Richelieu's territory and as such must necessarily be dangerous.

'Your messenger said you had news about the case?'

'After dinner, captain.'

'If it is important I would hear it now — if my musketeers need to act—'

'Then I would have sent for them as well. As it is, we have time. There is a bit of a game afoot. I believe. I will come to it. Are you fond of the Greeks?'

'Um.' Treville stares. He thinks: he is only asking about my education. If I've read the classics. He doesn't think: this is Richelieu. He could be asking about _anything_. 'Preferred the Romans, myself. But I've read most of the important works, if that is what you are asking.'

'Of course you did. Do you remember the one about the labyrinth?'

'Minotaur of Crete. Man with a ball of string.'

'That's the one.' Richelieu smiles. 'That is how I would describe the current machinations of France's politics. Labyrinthine. There is the king who is the representative of the actions of the state. He is, rather, the embodiment of the state and as such he must be perfect. Even if he is not.'

Treville moves a stewed pear around on his plate. 'Like actors then, the effect is achieved with mirrors.'

The look that Richelieu gives Treville is a warm one. 'Exactly! The king must never be seen as fallible and so all his flaws, his poor decisions, his rash actions demanded in the heat of the moment or with a head full of wine, are deflected on to the _actual_ actors of the state's movements. So, myself, you, courtiers, other representatives of the state such as governors, princes, counts. The king does nothing in government but must be seen to do all unless it is bad. Or a failure. Then he is immediately removed from it. The rest of us fall or rise depending on how we reflect, or mute, the perfection of the king.'

'I follow.'

'How is the queen?'

Of course, Treville thinks, Richelieu would never plan to tell me that not only are the politics going to be a labyrinth but also our conversation. He replies that she is well, although he has not seen her since the day before. In fact, he points out, you have probably seen her more recently than I.

The cardinal nods, taps erratically on the table. He considers the man in front of him. Decides that this is not the place.

'Shall we walk?' He says.

'What about dinner?'

'It can wait. Having it around six is fashionable now, I hear.'

They move out of the room to still unfinished gardens. Paris is a city of unfinished works. Constantly growing, pulsing out from the Seine. Spreading fingers of urban life further and further into the land as they pile on top of one another. Building on building on building, feeding each other, lifting up, toppling down. What is this palace built on top of? Whose former bedrooms are now cellars? What unknown bones lie mouldering beneath their feet?

'The queen,' Treville prompts. He reasons that it is just as well the cardinal brought up the queen for he has opinions about events from nine months ago. Many opinions.

'The queen.' Richelieu agrees.

Within the bushes can be seen Thisbe. Stalking his natural prey, the never ending rodent supply of the city. He wiggles his bottom then dashes forward scooting between the feet of the men and away again into foliage.

'He's new,' Richelieu says mildly. 'Only decided to stay around a few months ago. It's the construction. Disturbs the rats.'

Treville, 'never took you for a cat enthusiast.'

'I'm rather fond of the creatures. Useful, too. And not as loud as terriers.'

'Tell that to Athos. Apparently there's a pair that squabbles behind the barracks every night.'

The cardinal looks far too invested in this. Treville turns the conversation back around. The queen, he prompts. She is well. He wants to add: with no help from you.

'It was on an order from the king.'

They stop walking. Or, rather, Treville halts and Richelieu kindly waits for him. The musketeer turns and stalks up to the cardinal. 

'You are lying.'

'I am doing no such thing.'      

'The king-'

'Decisions and actions made and demanded in the heat of the moment or with a head full of wine.' Richelieu looks down at the accusing finger Treville had been waving in his face. 'I did say that it was the wine speaking.'

With a jerking motion Treville turns away for a minute. He looks up at the sky which is turning a deep blue and there are streaks of red and pink. It will be getting too cold to be outside, soon. He traces the string of this memory back to its roots. The garden and the king and the way he looked at Charlotte Mellendorf. At the time he had written it off as usual court flirtations. Now, though.

'Desperation can make a man act outside of himself,' Treville says. More to the sky than to Richelieu. 'He was desperate for an heir.'

'I will have to disagree that any of us act outside of ourselves, but you take my point.'

'What did he say?'

They are facing each other again. Treville has not smiled since he arrived. Richelieu knows the man can smile. He knows it is akin to lighting a bonfire in a small room in its warmth. He wants to see it but cannot think of a way to make it happen.

'He said that Charlotte Mellendorf would make the perfect wife and if only Anne were dead.'

'That's hardly an order.'

'You know that is not how these things work.'

'You could have let him cool off before making any rash decisions.'

Richelieu has a response to this. He has many responses. He has words and words and words. But with Treville's face both understanding and angry; sympathetic and furious he knows that this is not the time.

Instead he say, 'perhaps. If it is any consolation to your ever present conscience,' an internal wince, 'I did learn a few things in the aftermath.'

'Well, I cannot complain too much, then.'

The queen, as a subject, is now hastily dropped. Treville wants to pick at it more. Like a scab you keep returning to over and over till there is open wound and a surety of scar-flesh in your future. But this is how it is with Richelieu. His skin itches and he wants to run and sit still and to avoid the man and to go to him the first moment he gets.

Truly, it is inconvenient at best. A bleeding nuisance being the more accurate description that Treville has bestowed upon it. The _bleeding nuisance_ is now insisting that they return for dinner. Pretend civility. Treville wants this. He also wants to go home. He is not daft. He knows exactly what this means which does not make anything about it better.

‘What I really want to know is what you know about our dead man.’ This is firm ground. ‘He was one of your men for a while.’

‘He was.’

‘What happened?’

‘He opted out.’

This causes Treville to laugh. Short and sharp. I hadn’t realized this was an option, he says. I believe milady would agree with my shock. The face Richelieu makes is one of distaste. Then a switch. He is pleased. Thisbe has returned and winds about their feet begging for scraps. With him is a friend.

‘Andromeda’ Richelieu says.

‘How many cats are there?’

‘I’m not sure. They come and go. They’re not really _mine_ you understand.’

Treville does. Andromeda is more to his taste as the cat lolls on the floor and clearly does not care one wit about their presence.

The moment passes and Richelieu attends to his wine before launching into Bellevievre’s history. Much of it is the usual one of a third son attempting to make his way in the world. Deviations begin at the time that Bellevievre enters Richelieu’s service. Then he is in Spain and Flanders and Amsterdam and London. He remains on a good course until 1630. Then — a shift.

‘He was the one who warned me about Marie’s plans,’ Richelieu explains. ‘During her second attempted coup. Because of him I was able to ride out to the king and so I owe him a debt for that.’

‘Then what happened?’

‘He lost interest, if one may put it that way, in his work. Took up with Fontaine and his crowd. And when I say he opted out—‘

‘You sacked him.’

‘He was not in any condition to be dealing with delicate matters of state.’

Treville agrees and notes that he has had his share of similar decisions. However the sticking point is, Bellevievre is dead and for no clear reason he can make out since Fontaine did not seem concerned about repayment. Unless the others found a lead with the husband.

‘It seems a bit petty, even for Marie de Medici, to kill a man who is no longer in active service, only a threat to himself with his behaviour, as revenge for actions over three years ago.’

‘That is why it rubs, captain. And you are sure there is nothing to follow in the gambling line?’

‘Nothing with Fontaine. There are one or two more I’ll speak with but he would be the biggest one. Well, he _was_ hiding something but his sort usually are from representatives of the law.’

‘And such a brutal way to go. Marie is usually more subtle than that.’

‘One of her supporters then?’

‘Possibly.’

They finish the meal on other subjects. No matter what they turn to there remains a line of tension and it runs tight as a bow string pulled back. As the hour for the Easter Vigil draws close Treville makes indications that he is to retire for the evening. The ride home is not the shortest in Paris and there is much to do. Richelieu’s instinct is to reach out, No, stay. Remain by the fire where it is warm and I know you are safe. Footpads do not stop working merely because it is Easter. He wants to feel the captain’s hands again. They had been dry, rough, calloused.

‘If you think of anything more,’ Treville is saying when Richelieu attends to the conversation.

‘I will be sure to let you know, captain.’

‘You truly think Marie de Medici is involved?’

‘That or an incredibly overzealous husband. Or maybe it is an avenue we have yet to peruse.’

A wry smile, ‘we, your eminence?’

Richelieu waves a hand. Oh yes, yes, captain, we. As I said, I owe the man. He stands and they walk towards the door. It is then that Treville notices how quiet the building is, without construction, without the comings and goings of servants, ecclesiastical and secular clerks, various and sundry. The multitude it takes to keep a prince of the Church and first minister of France in state.

‘This a beautiful building,’ Treville says. In night it is easier to be softer in all things. To find a gentler way to be.

‘I thank you.’

‘Cardinal.’

‘Captain.’

'Regarding the queen.’ That loadstone of the evening. Of the past nine months. ‘I believe you. I do not agree with how you went about things but I believe that it began the way you said it did. And don’t worry, I won’t breath a word of it to anyone.’ He doffs his hat. Gives a bow. Is gone into the darkness and Richelieu can hear horse hooves fading away. He exhales. Muscles relax.

‘Well,’ he says to Andromeda who is watching him with evident disinterest, ‘that did not go nearly as disastrously as I expected it to.’

 

 

Midnight. Richelieu is at prayer. There is much on his mind and he finds his conversation with God lacking. By half-one he is back in his temporary study and sending for Theodore Godefroy. His man of commerce and Other Delicate Issues of Economics arrives by one and looks to have still been awake at home as well.

'A holy day for such secular undertakings,' Godefroy says as Richelieu explains the situation to him.

'Just as God's work never ceases, Godefroy, the work of the state will ever floweth like many waters.'

'My father would have much to say about that sentence.'

'I'm sure he would. Still a Calvinist, is he?'

'Staunchly.'

'Pity. Well, do you understand everything required?'

'Find your former spy, milady, even though there is a good chance she wants to stick a hat pin in your eye—'

'How kindly put, Godefroy.'

'Convince her to speak with you. Also, shake the usual trees and see what falls out about Marie de Medici.'

Richelieu nods, 'just so.'

'And your friend the captain of the musketeers? Will I be stepping on his toes as I rattle said trees?'

'Hopefully not. I mentioned Marie to him but insisted that I think it's something else. I want to keep the musketeers away from Marie and her ilk for as long as possible.'

Godefroy frowns, asks why. Have they not been useful against her in the past? Is this not the one thing we can all agree upon: Marie de Medici is bad news? Richelieu snorts, Depends on how you define 'useful'. Now, he shuffles papers, I was away from court this afternoon. What news?

'Ah,' the scholar makes a delicate motion. 'Your...friend... the comte de Rochefort.'

'He's returned?'

'He has.'

'Who has he been seen with?'

'Monsieur Rivelle, your future nephew-in-law Bernard de Nogaret de la Valette who is visiting on behalf of his father, and a few others who run in that circle.'

Richelieu nods. This is to be expected. The remnants of the _d_ _é_ _vots_ and other pro-Marie factions band together whenever possible. That Rochefort would consort with them is intriguing. That he is even alive and in one piece is another point of intrigue. He places these points of interest in their appropriate mental boxes and thanks Godefroy.

'I want an update tomorrow, Holy Monday the latest.'

'Yes, your eminence.'

           

 

Lent has always been a time of increased court scheming. With everyone abstaining from everything that ever brought some semblance of pleasure this is of little surprise. The amount of inappropriate thoughts confessed on Wednesdays and Fridays triples. Richelieu finds it exhausting. However, that the Lenten season is ending with this amount of tension, with this amount of quiet and calm before a storm whose clouds are just taking shape, disturbs him. Foul things are afoot. He suddenly feels very tired.


	3. Chapter 3

Easter Vigil and the royal family is standing outside of the Notre Dame. That they have returned is noted upon. That they are showing the people of Paris that they are unafraid is never once disputed. The queen rests her hand on her belly. Her heir. The third in this triumvirate of royalty. Just as Mary, mother of Jesus, Virgin, chosen above all other women, must have rested her hand on her belly. This child will be the savior of France - but should we draw parallels with the divine? A king is appointed by God and his place part of the natural, Godly order of society but these parallels God perhaps too far. This boy, pray it is a boy, will save France from civil war but he will hardly deliver France’s people from sin unto the light. He is a savior which is different from redeemer.

Richelieu is the one saying mass this late evening, early morning and everything is in white and as solemn as the grave. The twin feelings of mourning and rejoice are in the air. Easter being the ever conflicting holy day. The queen is joyous and terrified. Richelieu notes this. He notes the musketeer presence. He sees a familiar and detested face inching closer to the king. 

Oh if only the Spanish had done their duty. Oh if only foreign powers could be relied upon to be as cruel and ruthless as he, himself, finds that he must be. Do they not love their kings and queens as much as he loves his? Do they not know a double crossing, base knave when they see one? 

Rochefort smiles at him from the crowd of courtiers around Louis and Anne. 

Richelieu nods in response. He wants to look disgusted but does not. He hides his revulsion away in a secret corner of his mind. He meets Treville’s eye and the musketeer is as ambivalent as always. When Rochefort speaks to him he is neither here nor there. Richelieu takes some pride in  _ this _ . At least  _ he _ makes Treville react. At least  _ he _ can have the captain’s time of day.A thought occurs: Snakes crawl on their bellies through the gardens of good and holy people. There had been a snake in Eden, once, and God had smote him out. 

 

‘It is astounding,’ Louis is whispering to Treville. Below him, state papers are being passed between ministers. ‘Have you heard how the Comte de Rochefort escaped from the clutches of the Spanish?’

Treville allows himself to half listen to the mass. There is comfort in the Latin tongue although he speaks it only a little. The other half of him is attending to the king. 

‘I have heard it, your majesty.’

‘Extraordinary!’ There is a boyish look of excitement. ‘Has his eminence heard yet?’

‘I couldn't say. But I think it likely.’

‘And,’ Louis’ voice drops to a whisper ‘he had news from Spain. Knowledge of the movement of troops on the border. We are to discuss it after Mass. I would have you there, captain.’

Treville acknowledges the honour. The triumph of Easter, the Eucharist itself, is about to be blessed and so he turns his attentions more fully to the display and does his best to rid his mind of unholy thoughts. He does not contemplate the cardinal’s hands or his eyes or his voice. These little drips of water, fleeting moments of interest, do not gather in his mind and become a loadstone upon his heart. He does not allow them to. A long time ago he head learned  how to excise such things from himself, to divorce himself from himself. Less for the sake of his soul and more for the sake of his skin and flesh. He knows what a man burning smells like. He does not wish to become ash upon a pier. 

  
  


After the solemnity of Mass there is the joy of an end of a cycle. Christ has died, Christ has risen, Christ will rise again. Amen.

  
  


In his time at court Treville has developed a talent for discerning which of the cardinal’s spies are  _ actually _ good men underneath it all and which are bad and which merely desperate. Rochefort he could never pin down for it wavered between the three as a compass without north.

Porthos, at his elbow, mutters that he doesn't trust the man. Only bad can come from someone recently returned from Spain. 

‘I fought in Spain,’ Treville replies. 

‘That's different, sir.’

Treville grins - a flash - then is stern again. ‘Yes,’ he agrees. ‘It is. Have we heard anything about movement on the borders?’

‘No. And Aramis checked with some of his friends still in active service and they haven't heard anything either.’

‘Never a good sign.’

‘So what do we think? Good information or chicken-’

‘Wait and see.’ 

Porthos hums, sinks it's his stance and for all the world gains the appearance of a man who is large and dumb. 

Rochefort arrives with the king. Where is the cardinal? Still divesting himself from Mass. Oh- there he is. Treville frowns. Porthos hums a second time. Rochefort is smiling at everything and speaking in an intimate fashion with the king. Anne - Anne is absent. Just as well, Treville says to Porthos, this is going to be a dog fight. 

Richelieu sweeps in still smelling of incense. 

‘Your majesty,’ he bows. 

‘Cardinal! Come, congratulate the Comte de Rochefort on his timely escape from Spain!’

Richelieu does. It does not sound like a congratulations to Treville.  

 

The group decants to a room removed from courtiers. The king makes it known that he wishes to be private with his advisors since Spain, once again, is making a menace of herself. He will not have Leclerc making faces or suffer the too-loud laugh of Lefevre. He will be serious. 

‘Now, what news?’ Louis asks as soon as maps have been hauled onto an available table top. ‘The Spanish are marshalling against which region?’

Treville and Porthos keep to the side, content to watch until called upon. This provides ample opportunity for the captain of the musketeers to consider the situation. There is something amiss but he cannot put his finger on it. Richelieu is frowning at the map.  _ Everyone _ is frowning at the map but Richelieu’s frown is different than the usual one he wears when concentrating. Treville glances to Porthos who is making a face at the back of Rochefort’s head. 

Rochefort traces the mountains north, ‘here, your majesty. The Basque region. Currently French owned but the people are sympathetic to the Spanish.’

Louis spins to Treville, ‘your family has land in the Basque country, does it not, captain?’ 

‘We do, your majesty.’ 

‘Strange that you have not heard from them, then, is it not?’ 

‘If what has been said is true it is worrying.’ 

‘You think it might be false?’ 

‘I couldn’t say, your majesty. We do not have all the facts.’ 

Louis, fretful, spins around again. ‘Cardinal! You have people everywhere. What information do you have for us?’ 

‘At the moment none, your majesty. But that will be fixed immediately.’ 

Louis looks at Richelieu then to Treville then to Rochefort. He is caught between them and is become scared at who is right. Does he want a war? Wars bring glories and honours to their kings. All the famous kings of old were warriors. His own father was a warrior. But wars are also expensive and, as Richelieu reminds him daily, the coffers of France are not exactly full. What use was having a Medici mother if she couldn’t keep the country in money? 

‘Well, we will reconvene tomorrow and hopefully you will be of more use,’ Louis says to Richelieu who bows. ‘Come, Rochefort. I want to hear this story of yours again.’ They exit. 

Porthos breaths out, ‘well there’s a thing.’ 

‘Not a good one,’ Richelieu mutters. ‘Truly, captain, you have not heard anything?’ 

‘If I had I would have said.’ 

‘I don’t trust him,’ Porthos chimes. Richelieu gives him a look. Porthos just smiles. ‘I don’t trust you either-’

Treville holds up his hand - enough Porthos. This is not the time. And you, cardinal? 

‘As I said to the king.’ 

‘Then either Rochefort is lying or he is ahead of all of us. Which, considering he was recently there-’

Richelieu shakes his head, ‘people do not just  _ escape _ from Spanish prisons. Especially not French spies. Especially not French spies who are  _ not _ supposed to escape. They’re the last to do such things. Usually due to an inability to act.’ 

The foul taste this leaves in their mouths lingers after they bid good day to each other go their separate ways. 

  
  
  


Watching a giant begin to fall is a fascinating experience. For Richelieu, his giant is Spain, although he is loath to use David as the comparison to either himself or France. David is Florence’s patron, not Paris’. Spain is beginning a slow decline into impotency although he thinks that she does not know it yet and will not for many years. These wars, here on the border with France, down in Naples, over in the Netherlands, the gnashing of teeth at England, are the last heaving gasps of a creature slowly crushing itself with its own weight. A beached whale with little hope for survival in the long term.  Even the eastern parts of the Habsburg dynasty are itching to retract themselves from the Spanish fold. Well, those who are forward thinking are, at least. This does not make war any less dangerous. This does not reduce Spain as a threat. When giants fall, they bring down those around them in their death throes. Richelieu is determined that it will  _ not _ be France. 

Take Portugal and England with you, he thinks bitterly. Leave me the vestiges of Basque, Gascony, the northern Italian peninsula. Dirt from which a diamond might be made if worked hard enough. 

Besides, this is a time to look abroad to new seas and new land. Champlain has left with the king’s blessing and Richelieu’s coin to continue exploring this new world across cold Atlantic waters. Oh, he will not ruin France’s chance at colonial power the way Spain sabotaged her own. He will work to ensure that the harvests and resources coming in from New France will multiply and only bring greatness to Paris. 

The feeling of living on the brink of a great age is frustrating, intangible almost, fleeting as that  _ moment _ slips away. Will he live to see France’s golden age? He does not think so. Will Louis? Possibly. Treville? He does not like to think about the captain’s death and so returns to the Spanish Question. 

  
  
  


When in doubt of the inevitably shifting sands of political reality beneath one’s feet: act. The cardinal would heartily disagree with the sentiment but the cardinal can go hang himself. Treville amends: perhaps, not out of a window of the Notre Dame. 

‘What news?’ He yells down to the yard. The three, apart from Porthos who is with him on the landing, look up. 

‘Shall we come up?’ Athos asks. Treville rolls his eyes.  _ Would you _ ? 

First, they hand over the two cards. The fool and the hanged man are on his desk and they look beautiful with their trimmed gold edges. These are no mere playing cards for your average Italian sailor. These are the cards of the rich. 

‘When did he receive these?’ 

‘Madame de Rivelle did not say but it was recently.’ 

‘Does she know who sent them?’

The musketeers shake their heads. 

‘And she last saw Bellevievre…’

‘A few days before Friday. She was with her husband all that day so it couldn’t have been him unless he hired a man. But she doesn’t think that it’s him.’ 

‘What wife would?’ 

Porthos lights up, ‘I just remembered. She mentioned a comte recently returned from Spain.’ 

‘Ah,’ a grim smile. ‘Our friend crops up in interesting circles. I want you to go back and ask her about Rochefort. When did he meet with her husband, what did they speak of - the usual questions. See if there is any connection between the death of Bellevievre and Rochefort’s recent reappearance.’

Athos nods to the others. They leave Treville with the cards upon his desk. He picks one up, admires the design, turns it over to the blank backside. Then over again to the decorated front. The fool and the hanged man. A hanged fool. King of fools? He loves Louis but if there was a man for that notion, upon occasion, it would be the beloved monarch. However, he has never been very good at word puzzles. He tucks them away for the cardinal to see. There is a man for tricks of the tongue and twisting a word around so many times it inverts itself and suddenly means something different than it had five minutes ago although context, so far as anyone is aware, has not changed. 

Or so it seems to Treville. 

 

A devotional statue of wood is delivered to the Palais Cardinal. It is small, no bigger than a forearm and in the back is a wax model of a finger.  Gonçalo, a saint from Portugal, does not inspire a deep sense of piety or veneration in the cardinal. The stories he knows of Gonçalo are trite, at best, absolutely ridiculous at worst. 

‘Well, hopefully we will get wine spurting forth from rocks,’ he remarks dryly to Godefroy who is visiting with ill news. The ill news, yet delivered, has Godefroy scowling at the statue. 

‘Maybe don’t touch this one,’ Godefroy says. 

‘Holy Mother Church would only try that tactic once, surely. Anyway, it’s from an anonymous source. I’m contemplating who I dislike enough at the moment to bestow it upon. Perhaps the duc d’Orleans. He needs to reminded of his duty every once in awhile.’ The mystery of the statue is set aside once Godefroy seats himself. 

‘Rochefort sends his regards.’ 

‘Oh! Maybe I should send him the statue. Portugal was once part of Spain, after all.’ 

‘You think him a Spanish spy, then?’

‘Do you?’ 

Godefroy shrugs. He says it is too early to tell. But he is not here for that. He is here for two things: the first being the latest letters from Champlain regarding cod supplies in New France. The second being the untimely death of Monsieur Ivan Brisebois. Richelieu sits forward. This is unexpected tidings and there is nothing more hated than unexpected tidings. 

‘Brisebois?’ 

‘Last night, early this morning. I sent for the Musketeers, I trust that was the right decision? They have that handy one who can figure out time of death. Dashed useful. Anyway, looks to be a fit. Maybe the apoplexy. Maybe ague.’ 

Richelieu stands and begins to pace. ‘I don’t care for coincidences. Brisebois was another ally from the last attempted coup by Marie de Medici. Apoplexy you say?’ 

‘I’m a banker and a scholar, not a doctor. But that is what it looked like to me.’ 

‘When did you send for the musketeers?’

‘Just now. Right before I rode here.’ Godefroy places a collection of letters on the desk. ‘I think we should tap into this cod supply in the northern Atlantic before the English realize it’s there.’ 

‘Does Champlain think there gold in New France?’ 

‘Too early to tell, I think.’ 

‘Well, we’ll worry about that later. Tell me your thoughts on Rochefort then your thoughts on Brisebois.’

Godefroy relaxes into the seat and spreads his palms on the rests. He thinks that Rochefort is a scoundrel and Brisebois a good man. This is obviously not what the cardinal wants to hear. But then the cardinal had not seen Brisebois’ rooms and cannot know how...simple it all looked. At this thought the accountant in Godefroy took over. Simple is rarely a good thing. When the books are too simple, too clear, too perfect in their debit and credit columns it usually means mischief is being done. 

‘I am not convinced that Brisebois was murdered, your eminence. Aprt from the mess he made as he died his rooms were in order.’

‘A man can be murdered for reasons other than possessing something sought after. But I take your point. Continue.’

‘Rochefort appears to be another social climbing courtier who doesn't like you. Which, my lord, is hardly a rare thing.’

Richelieu owns this as true. Being a necessary man does not make one a  _ liked  _ man. Even the king has an underlying feeling of antipathy towards him. Although it is well tempered by the knowledge that France would be  _ nothing _ without the cardinal. 

A knock interrupts Godefroy who scoots back and shoots out of the chair to the door. He opens it to find the captain of the musketeers. They bow to each other. 

‘You sent for me?’ Treville siddles in and deposits himself near the desk but leaves the seat free. Godefroy resumes his lounging position. 

‘Your men are seeing to Brisebois?’ 

‘They will be, they’re following up with some other business first.’ Seeing the cardinal’s face Treville shrugs, ‘I assumed that a dead man wasn’t going anywhere very quickly.’ 

‘Very well, but I want to know their report as soon as you have it.’

‘You didn’t send for me just to tell me that.’ 

‘I want to know what you think of the recent events, now that you have had an evening to ponder.’ 

Treville thinks that it is complicated. He says as much. He watches Richelieu without watching Richelieu. 

‘These were sent to Bellevievre before he died,’ Treville finishes the update from his men. The cards given to him are set down beside the engraved saint. ‘It’s becoming too occult in appearance for my taste. Obtuse warnings, public murders, private murders.’ 

‘The fool,’ Richelieu fingers the card. ‘Do you play him high or low, captain?’ 

‘High, usually. Unless I’m playing with Athos then it’s low.’ 

A grim smile. Of course it is. I usually change, depending on the day. Treville mimics his smile. Of course you do. Godefroy rolls his eyes and picks at his fingers in boredom. 

‘ _ Le mat _ ,’ Richelieu hums. ‘ _ Il matto _ . I think it might be related to  _ é _ _ chec de mat _ linguistically. For those who choose to use the cards for divination: the fool.’ 

Treville starts. Richelieu looks up to him with an open face. The captain blinks, mutters, ‘oh.  _ Oh _ . Tell me, your eminence. L’idiot, l’imb é cile, le fou, bouffon - what is another word for all those?’ 

Richelieu shakes his head, he does not follow just yet but thinks that he likes it when Treville is excited yet exasperated. The effect is a charming one. 

Godefroy, still paying attention to his nails, ‘le dupe, pigeon…’ He looks up when he notes the silence. Richelieu is leaning back with an incredulous look, the captain is much the same putting his weight on his heels. 

A motion, Richelieu covers his mouth, looks up at the ceiling, back to Treville whose expression is one of  _ oh yes.  _

‘Day of the dupes,’ Richelieu half-laughs. Stops himself. Appreciates the snort of amusement from Treville. ‘She can’t be making that obscure of a reference, can she? Surely she’s not making  _ puns _ before having someone murdered?  _ Surely _ she is more subtle than that.’ 

A shrug from Treville who seems to have resigned himself to something absurdly political being the game. The captain says, ‘or as noted last night - it could be one of her supporters acting independent from her.’ 

‘No one works on behalf of Marie independently from Marie.’ 

The three men muse on this in silence for a moment. Treville notes, ‘nice saint. Maybe don’t touch this one, though.’ 

Richelieu replies, ‘is that everyone’s joke, now?’ 

Treville, ‘I thought it a good one.’ 

Godefroy, ‘so did I when I used it an hour ago.’ 

Ah, Treville nods, hence his foul mood about it. I see. Well, if there is nothing new I do have other things to do today. He pauses at the door. He thinks that what he wants to say is that the nature of this seems very personal. Two of the cardinal’s men from that fateful November day are now dead. The obscure warnings. The arrival of Rochefort, a man who had once been the cardinal’s but now was not. This feels both entirely Marie de Medici and yet nothing like Marie de Medici. 

Instead he asks, ‘who sent you the statue, by the way?’ 

‘A mystery, captain.’

Treville thinks there is a hint of a smile on the cardinal’s face. 

‘Who is it? I don’t recognize him.’ 

‘Gonçalo. A Portuguese saint. Not one I’ve ever felt a particular attachment to. Godefroy has a statue of him, do you not?’ 

The man in question nods absently. Pretty thing, he says. Ivory. From those two Portuguese ships that wrecked near Gascony a couple years ago that Epernon was hounding after. Oh yes, Richelieu nods, that old fool. His foul son wants to marry my niece. 

Feeling the conversation drifting into territory beyond him Treville bids good day and promises to send round news once more comes to hand  _ only _ if the cardinal agrees to do the same. 

‘Yes, yes of course, captain. I have already agreed to be forthcoming. You were called here today, were you not? Let me know what you find on Brisebois.’ 

‘And your end?’ 

‘I’m going to shake the proverbial broom into the rafters of the  _ devots _ and see what falls out.’

Treville gives a gruff laugh, ‘just mind your head while doing so.’ 

‘Do worry, captain, I’m well trained in that regard.’ 

Treville takes his leave and as he makes his way back towards the barracks he thinks that there might be something there. A soft, little something. A something he cannot quite name, yet and wouldn’t want to anyway for naming things reeks of premature assumptions which he hates. He is about to settle upon a personal reference point for it when he is grabbed suddenly by the young d’Artagnan. 

‘Captain Treville, you must come! It is Athos - someone’s shot Athos!’ 


	4. Chapter 4

Aramis feels as if he has been shot. Although it is not he with the shoulder bloodied and hunched back trying not to scream as Porthos hauls body up. But it might as well have been. He collects his thoughts: the shot came from where? Behind them. D’Artagnan is already sprinting in the direction and there is Porthos yelling at him, Go, go catch the bastard who did this. 

He runs. Not because of Athos and his filthy clothes and the sand that is now muddied with the musketeer’s blood. Not because of Anne’s pale face and her visible, palpable fear. Not because of their child who is at risk because of Anne’s fright. 

Porthos yells, Go, go and catch the bastard who did this. 

And Aramis goes. Because Porthos yells at him to. 

 

What do they find? 

Nothing. An empty courtyard. An empty stairwell. An empty window with a perfect sight-line to the queen. Standing at the window he can see Porthos and Athos making a hurried stagger towards the porticos with Anne and her women around them. He can see Margueritte looking towards the window, towards him. He smiles but knows she cannot see it. 

‘Well someone was here,’ d’Artagnan says as he indicates recently disturbed dust that was not caused by their bursting into the room. 

Aramis pulls himself in, looks down to his hands as they rest on the sill and can see a scuff. 

‘A musket rested here,’ he leans in and squints. ‘There’s a mark from the recoil.’ 

‘Who were they aiming for?’ 

‘The queen.’ 

D’Artagnan nods, ‘Most likely, but she wasn’t the only one there.’ 

‘It must be the queen.’ 

The younger man shrugs, turns away from Aramis and hunts through the room for other evidence but there is nothing. Aramis, still rooted at the window, looks down to the courtyard. Had Anne been hit - then what? Potential crises with Spain. The king would find a new bride. The cardinal would be pleased. This thought causes him to jerk his head, turn to d’Artagnan, ‘the cardinal has been known to pick off royals who get in his way.’ 

‘In broad daylight? With an audience of musketeers and courtiers? With ladies in waiting nearby?’ 

‘Why not?’ 

‘Doesn’t ring true to his acts in the past. He prefers poisoning you with your favourite wine, right? Taking you out to a forest to be dispatched. Not shooting you in front of witnesses.’ 

But Aramis is convinced. He crosses his arms. 

The sound of the musket ball hitting Athos had been dull. The sight of Anne is still bright, to him. Still stunning. Had she died - then what? He doesn’t know. The sound would have been the same, though. Queen, lover, musketeer - it matters not for flesh is flesh is flesh. 

 

Treville is through the main gates and into the common area where they have Athos seated and grumbling about the attention being paid to him. After the second round of, ‘this is unnecessary. Really, I am fine. Stop Serge I’m fine!’ Treville shoos the other musketeers out of the room. 

‘You all have training.’ 

‘We’re done, captain,’ a young one replies. Treville stares. The boy ducks his head. ‘Never done training!’ He squeaks and scoots away. 

‘Villenueve,’ Athos says. ‘He’s never known what is good for him.’ A grim smile. 

‘Like some others I know. Sit down, Athos. What happened?’ 

‘We were with the queen following up with Bellevievre’s mistress when,’ he motions to his shoulder. ‘From behind us as we moved indoors. D’Artagnan and Aramis tried to find the man but no luck.’

‘And what did you hear from the Madame de Rivelle before the event?’ 

‘Nothing of use. She didn’t hear the conversation between her and her husband. Oh! There was one thing, Epernon was mentioned. Duke of, not the son.’ 

Treville mulls on this. Epernon. He was part of the conspiracy from the year prior. Athos pokes his shoulder and makes a face at the bandages. There is a web, Treville thinks with some fervent amount of distaste. And oh how he  _ hates  _ webs. Networks of conspiracy and filthy politics that can stain a man’s soul. No, he knows, he is not the holiest of men. By many standards he barely breaks into the realm of  _ good man _ and these situations are usually what holds him back. Athos, in front of him, is waiting for a sign. For an order. One day Athos will succeed him as captain of the musketeers and he will have to make the decisions Treville has had to make and they do wear down a man. There are grooves in him that make well worn Paris roads look smooth. 

‘If Epernon is involved with Rivelle, both being Marie’s men, and they in turn are with Rochefort then where do the Spanish fit in with all of this? If they even are involved.’ The captain rubs his eyes. Oh damn the cardinal and damn the politics of court and damn ambitious queens and dukes and counts. 

‘Do you think Bellevievre was killed by the same man who tried to shoot the queen today?’ 

‘Perhaps.’ 

Athos ponders shifts, winces, scowls again at his shoulder. ‘D’Artagnan isn’t sure it was the queen who was the target. He thinks it might have been one of us.’ 

Treville thinks: how is your wife? 

Athos continues, ‘I’m not sure he’s wrong. Porthos pointed out that there was a clear shot. Either they’re very lousy and missed or she wasn’t the target.’ 

‘And you were?’ 

‘One of us. Or Madame de Rivellie. She was standing near me.’ 

‘Fine. We’ll follow this up. You’re resting. Don’t give me that look. Bed rest. My orders and the doctor’s. The queen will have a full guard around her, just in case.’ 

Athos resigns himself to the inevitable and slowly hauls himself to his room. Outside, two cats scream at each other. 

  
  


Enter the court in full lock-down. The king is surrounded by his current favourites and his musketeer guard. Amongst those in the inner circle is the comte de Rochefort. Richelieu is busy, he finds himself away tending to state issues, church issues, and shaking down his spies to discover who let such a thing happen. 

‘I wear too many hats,’ he says to Thisbe. Thisbe lolls about on a map of France. ‘You’re not supposed to be on the table.’ Thisbe continues lolling. Richelieu watches for a minute then thinks that he wants to see Treville. Again. Second time, one day. Who knew Palm Sunday’s could be so busy. Where is the captain? Oh, yes, with the king. How is that obnoxious second in command of his? Alive? That is well, then. 

Godefroy drifts in on his return from the coffee houses and court. 

‘How is the king?’ Richelieu asks from behind papers. 

‘Well, your eminence. Shaken by the attempt on the queen and their child. But in better news, he was pleased with the letters from Champlain and wants to hear everything about the New World.’ 

The cardinal looks up, ‘good. That is something I can keep him entertained with, then. The queen?’ ‘Well. Shaken by the event but there appears to be no harm done to the child.’ 

‘That is what I want to hear. Excellent. They are guarded?’ 

‘Musketeers.’ 

Richelieu makes a face. Godefroy shrugs. They are fine for such work, he says. The cardinal does not deign to reply. Instead he wants to know if there is news from Spain. 

‘Not my department, as you well know.’ 

‘You’re a merchant.’ 

‘Oh, that news. My brother writes that they are evil superstitious Papists.’

‘And you are not?’ 

‘My brother prays for my return to the correct faith every night, I am sure. As it stands, though, such things are for not. I’ve read Calvin and I’ve read Augustine. I prefer the latter to the former.’Godefroy pauses, collects himself. ‘I’ve heard of no disruptions along the border. I spoke with Gisquet who has business in the Basque country and Gascony and he just received his usual shipments in yesterday. No word of upset.’ 

The grim smile Richelieu wears amuses Godefroy. He adds that Gisquet is the man to go to for border intrigue. Half-Spanish, half-French, married to a Dutch woman and full on opportunist. If there was upset, he would be right in the middle of it. 

‘Good,’ Richelieu states. ‘Good, that is good. I’m to court, then.’ 

‘Shall I come?’ 

‘If you want a show.’ 

‘Oh,’ Godefroy straights himself up from where he had been lounging by the fire. ‘I always want a show.’ 

 

‘Your majesty!’ 

The king straightens up. Smiles at the cardinal. Rochefort is his twin in expression. 

‘Cardinal! I’m so glad you’ve come! You must see this new game Rochefort has in from Florence.’ 

On the table are cards with pretty pictures. Richelieu nods to them. 

‘Do you have the full set, comte?’ 

‘I lost a few in Spain, your eminence. But I have managed to replace them.’ 

‘Must be careful,’ Richelieu sits himself down and accepts Louis’ offer of wine. ‘Who knows into what hands they will fall. Your majesty, what are the rules?’ 

Louis eagerly begins to explain how to collect tricks and the aim of the entire endeavour. Richelieu is dealt a hand. They begin. 

‘I am glad to see you are taking this in such good spirits, your majesty’ Richelieu says as Louis collects the first trick.

Rochefort smiles, ‘It is a great relief that you and the queen are safe for now. The events of today have been harrowing.’ 

Louis plunges into despair at the turn in the conversation. Rochefort’s expression becomes plain. Richelieu says that it was by divine providence that the queen was saved. 

‘They only hit a musketeer,’ he adds. Standing somewhere behind him is Treville. He knows this because there are suddenly daggers being glared into the back of his head. ‘But this does raise questions of safety, your majesty. You both should be better guarded.’ 

‘If you’re going to suggest your own, I must thank you for the offer but I am perfectly happy with my musketeers.’ 

‘I am sure you are but these are dangerous times and with the murder the other day coupled with the events of today I would have you guarded twice as much as usual.’ 

Louis sighs, flops back into his chair and scatters his cards on the table. He does not want to be twice as guarded. Guard the queen! She is the one carrying their child! I must be allowed to breath, he insists. I can’t if there are guards sniffing around and always following me. He sighs again. Richelieu remains unmoved. The cardinal is a rock, the king knows. He is immovable and unshakeable when set upon a path. 

‘Fine,’ Louis huffs. ‘Fine. Have it your way cardinal. I shall be perfectly miserable, you know!’ 

‘I will rest easier knowing you are safe, your majesty.’ 

The king is morose in his resignation to the temporary change. Richelieu glances to Godefroy who is hovering in the corners. His merchant-banker-scholar cum spy bows. Disappears from the room. Treville is his next target. He searches for the musketeer amongst those present. Finds him by a window with an unreadable expression. Or, if it was read, the word for it would be a rude one. Richelieu thinks that they really ought to learn to work together better. He knows precisely why that hasn’t happened yet. Thinks maybe a second apology for the almost-killing-the-queen debacle is in order in as many days since the first one was made. 

He attends, suddenly, to the game in front of him as Rochefort gathers the scattered cards and shuffles. 

‘Really,’ the count is saying when Richelieu focuses on him again. ‘It is a wonder that such an event hasn’t happened before with how lax the musketeer guard is. I do agree with the cardinal that more care should be taken.’ 

In the corner of his vision the captain of the guard under question shifts. The expression changes a fraction. Richelieu thinks, arrange your face Jean-Armand de Treville. 

‘They’re not terrible,’ Richelieu remarks. ‘And anomalies do happen.’ 

Rochefort nods, ‘yes, like when the duke of Savoy was almost assassinated. Oh, and the queen nine months ago. Savoy five years ago - really, Savoy seems to be the achilles heel,’ a sharp laugh. ‘Along with other lapses in security…’ 

Louis frowns at his cards. 

‘Several of these things were out of everyone’s control.’ Richelieu replies. ‘I hardly think you would have done better. Anyway, the savoy incident worked in our favour. Did it not, your majesty?’ 

‘Oh I suppose. I mean had the duke fallen victim my sister would have been very upset.’ 

Both Rochefort and Richelieu nod. 

‘But,’ a childish glee on the king’s face. ‘I can’t say that it would have been terrible for France for her to become regent.’ 

‘Indeed,’ Richelieu murmurs. Treville is shifting again in his sidelines. Rochefort notices and looks towards the captain. 

‘Come, we will deal you in a hand captain and you can answer our questions perhaps more fully about the lapses in your musketeers’ abilities.’ 

Treville makes his way across the room and takes a cautious seat. Rochefort deals him a hand and they resume the game. There is only small change being played for and so no one feels the need to start afresh. 

‘Well?’ Rochefort hums. Treville plays a card. 

‘My musketeers acquitted themselves as can be expected in each case. Your majesty even complimented them on several occasions.’ 

Louis is pleased with this reminder. He wants to think well about his personal pet project and nods. Yes, he had, hadn’t he? To Richelieu he says, ‘and they even beat the best man in your guard.’ 

‘They did.’ 

Treville snorts. Collects the trick that he has won. They go around a second time. 

Rochefort spends a quiet spell as the king recounts entertaining hunting trips spent with the musketeers. Richelieu, in a lull, says that he has important business for the king to attend to. Spain, your majesty, I have news.

Rochefort perks up. A barely visible tremor in the hand. Arrange your face, comte de Rochefort. This is a game.

‘We’ll attend to it later.’ Louis decrees. 

‘I think it would be best to attend to it now, your majesty.’ 

‘Very well, come Rochefort, come Treville if this is to do with Spain you had best be with me.’

As a group they move to the king’s study. 

Rochefort to Richelieu in a whisper, ‘do you treat all your spies in such ways?’ 

Richelieu to Rochefort, ‘I have no idea what you’re speaking of.’ 

 

‘News from Gascony and Basque,’ Richelieu opens as soon as they are private. 

‘From a reliable source, your eminence?’ Rochefort asks. 

‘Of course.’ He turns to the king. ‘There appears to be no disturbance at the border. If the Spanish are indeed planning something, it is not in that region.’ 

Louis makes a face. He ponders the map. Eyes regions of former conflict, areas that France could perhaps govern were things to go their way. ‘Is it possible you heard wrong, comte?’ 

Rochefort shakes his head, ‘no your majesty. But perhaps their plans have changed. I would trust the cardinal in this matter.’ 

A nod, of course you are right. To Treville, ‘could you perhaps send some men down. Do a discreet-’

There is certainly no derisive looks from either count or cardinal at this moment. 

‘A discreet look around. Report back to me what they hear.’ 

Treville bows, ‘as you wish your majesty.’ 

Rochefort chimes as Treville makes to leave, ‘discreet being the operative word, captain.’ 

Treville smiles at him, ‘as discreet as you are, sir.’ 

 

Richelieu catches Treville a short time later. ‘Are you free this evening?’ 

‘No.’ 

‘Are you free tomorrow evening.’ 

‘I am a busy man, your eminence. You may have forgotten this but I have two murder and one attempted murder to deal with and I’m losing men to border patrol.’ 

A reach forward, he grasps at Treville’s sleeve. The musketeer jerks in an unthinking reaction then looks from the cardinal’s hand up to the cardinal’s face. 

‘I think we really ought to learn to work together, captain.’ A softening around Treville’s face and Richelieu hauls him to the side of the hall. There is a discreet corner to hide in for a moment. And a moment is all he wants. He corrects himself, he wants more than a moment but a moment is what he needs at this time. ‘We have spoken of this before I know. But I think it is time we made an actual effort. Both of us.’ 

His hand is still on Treville’s arm. 

Treville does not note the weight of it. 

‘As you say, your eminence.’ 

‘Are you free this evening, then?’ 

‘For a short while.’ 

Richelieu smiles. Treville schools his face to a calm neutral but there had been a moment of an almost-smile about the edges of his mouth. A slight crinkle about the edges of his eyes. They are eyes with laughter lines for clearly once-upon-a-time he had been a happy man. 

‘I will expect you then. My court residence.’ 

They do not move. 

‘Rochefort-’ Treville starts. 

‘Later.’ 

They continue to not move. It is a fraction too long. Richelieu’s hand on Treville’s arm and they are standing close and Treville is not-thinking and cannot help himself when he breaths out, ‘you are a dangerous man.’ 

Richelieu smiles but it is in confusion. ‘Many have said that. I thought you always knew that.’ 

Treville shakes his head. That is not what he meant. 

‘Until later,’ he pulls away. 

The sound of fabric moving away from skin is louder than church bells after Easter Mass. 

  
  


The Portuguese saint is still on Richelieu’s desk when he returns to the palais cardinal. A sigh and he lowers himself down into his chair and stares at it. His mind is itching - the way it does when he is missing something obvious and there it is hanging in front of him. The fruit of the tree of knowledge. If he had been in Eden there would never have been a need for a snake to tempt him. He would have orchestrated his fall on his own. 

The saint makes him think of purgatory and hell. The reparations for a life lived in sin which his, most assuredly, has been. 

Why a  _ Portuguese _ saint? Are the Portuguese involved? Most likely not. Too busy bickering with the flailing Dutch republic over foreign spice routes to meddle in French court politics. But one can never be too sure. He makes a note to tap into that line of his network. 

A knock, a servant sticks his head around, ‘a musketeer to see you, your eminence.’ 

He perks up. ‘Oh? Which one?’ 

‘An Aramis, your eminence.’ 

He makes a face. That foul young man. All right, send him in. He thinks, Maybe I’ll give him this devotional carving and tell him to kiss its feet every night. With any luck he’ll be dead in a week.

The musketeer enters cautiously with hat in hand. He gives a bow so short and jerked that it is almost rude. Richelieu waves this all away. He reminds himself that he will be supping with Treville that night and so has all the good grace in the world for the captain’s irascible, obnoxious, short sighted dog-loyal men. 

‘What brings you here?’ 

‘Your man sent for me to look at Brisebois. He said I was to deliver my report to you once I was finished.’ 

Richelieu nods. 

Aramis trudges on, ‘he died sometime during the night but probably closer to the morning. I can’t guess an accurate time.’ 

‘Natural causes?’ 

The musketeer tilts his head, strokes his beard. Finally a slow ‘no’. ‘I think not. His body was still stiff when I tended to it and so his facial features were preserved from the death throws and no I would say unnatural rather than natural. There was a bit of foam at the mouth and Porthos inspected the still present wine and we think it might be poison.’ 

‘Anything else?’ 

Aramis shakes his head. No, no more. 

Richelieu regards him for a steady moment. At last he asks, ‘how is the queen?’ 

‘Well I hope.’ 

‘So do I,’ the cardinal lifts up a paper to examine. ‘So do I.’ 

‘No thanks to you.’ 

The cool examining gaze returns to the musketeers. At last a fraction of a sneer. You are finished here, I believe. 

‘Why did you do it?’ 

Richelieu waves him off, ‘go. You are distraught, I am assuming, by today’s events. Not thinking clearly. Go.’ 

Aramis draws himself up. His fingers are white as they clench his hat. The brim rolled tight in fist. 

‘I demand an answer.’ 

‘You may demand nothing of me.’ 

‘She is our queen!’ 

‘Just as well you remember that!’ 

Aramis seethes, ‘ _ I _ protect her.’ 

‘I beg your pardon, sir, you do no such thing.’ Richelieu holds his hand up. ‘No. We are done with this subject for the sake of France. And remember this, Aramis, everything I do is for the sake of France. Not for personal gain or  _ pleasure _ . For France and her king.’ 

‘Not for personal gain-’

‘God rewards those who are of aid to a Christian kingdom.’ 

‘You tried to have her killed!’ 

‘And you?’ Richelieu stands, leaning on his hands. ‘And you? What do you think your actions with her will bring about? A happy ending?’ 

A first the musketeer goes white then he reels then sneers. 

‘I am going now, your eminence.’ 

‘Aramis.’ 

Aramis stops. He is by the door. 

‘Remember this conversation.’ 

Aramis gives him a dirty look but beneath it is nothing but fear. 

  
  


It is an exhale of tension once the musketeer is gone. Richeliue sits back down. Considers  Gonçalo before him. That could have gone better, he muses. I had not meant to play my cards in such a way. 

Godefroy swings into the room during the cardinal’s revelrie. 

‘You won’t believe what my wife found dead on our stoop this afternoon.’ 

Richelieu groans, ‘not another one.’ 

‘Two dead roosters. Black roosters.’ 

‘Are we throwing witchcraft into the mix, now? Was the captain right in his describing this as occult?’ 

Godefroy shrugs, ‘perhaps. She wants to call in a cunning woman to make us free from the evil eye. I hope that is all right. As the cardinal’s man I wasn’t sure is such a thing would be seemly.’ 

‘Oh yes, if it makes Madame Godefroy feel safe.’ 

‘She’s hidden a witch bottle under the hearth as well.’ 

‘Where did you find this woman?’ 

‘In heaven.’ A content smile. Richelieu rolls his eyes. 

 

Later, as Richelieu shoos Godefroy out telling him to tend to his wife and children like a good Christian husband, Godefroy laughingly says, ‘well so long as the roosters aren’t related to that ridiculous Portuguese story.’ 

The cardinal stops, ‘what story?’ 

‘The rooster of Barcelos? I heard in Amsterdam when I was last there from a Portuguese sailor. Dead rooster comes back to life, proves an condemned man innocent. Something about stolen goods. I can’t recall the details.’ 

‘Why Portugal, again?’ 

Godefroy’s expression becomes sober, ‘you’re shaking those trees?’ 

‘I sent word today. I hope to know by late tomorrow or the day after.’ 

The banker leans against the wall, his coat half on. 

‘Portugal always reminds me of Epernon, your eminence, and Epernon always reminds me of-’

‘Marie de’ Medici.’ 

  
  


At the musketeer barracks Aramis storms in with the fury of the gods. 

‘I wish someone would do us all a favour and kill that man,’ he fumes to Porthos who pours them both wine. 

‘He’s a cardinal. I’m pretty sure it’s a sin to wish a prince of the church dead.’ 

‘Then I’ve sinned a hundred-fold in the last hour.’ 

Porthos grins and they cheers. He is a  _ person _ . So, Porthos asks, what was it this time?

Aramis shrugs, Oh nothing. Just he got under my skin. You know how it is. 

Porthos does not. He indicates as much. Aramis makes a face, you’re just being difficult. You’ve had foul moods towards people. 

‘Usually with a purpose, Aramis. But all right. We can agree that the cardinal is generally unpleasant and move on. Fancy a trip to Gascony?’ 

‘Are you going with d’Artagnan?’ 

‘Captain’s orders. Thought I’d extend the invitation. Unless you want to stay here with Athos in a foul mood over being made to take bed-rest.’

They laugh. Aramis shakes his head, ‘poor Athos. When we catch the bastard who did it…’ 

Porthos nods, Yes, of course. 

There is relief roiling underneath the surface. For a brief moment when the shot had fired Porthos had thought it was Aramis who had been hit and he felt as if his heart was going to give out. He felt as if he had been shot. Although it would not have been his blood on the ground.

Standing, Aramis says, ‘let us go play cards somewhere more lively.’

Porthos nods. And he goes. Because it is Aramis who asked him. 


	5. Chapter 5

Things that happen during a night as Easter Sunday becomes Holy Monday:

Two musketeers fall asleep after playing cards until early hours of the morning. One is sprawled on his bed, the other is propped by door using his coat as a pillow. There is a (now empty) jug of wine. D’Artagnan will stick his head in the morning and harass them until they are up and ready to ride.

 

A captain visits a cardinal and demands to know about Portugal. They sit themselves by a fire and Richelieu insists on pouring the wine and sending servants off. Walls have ears, captain, which is fine. But servants have mouths and occasionally more than one master.

‘What do you mean?’ The cardinal asks.

‘Something happened. You get a saint and now I hear two dead roosters – all tied to the same country?’

‘Godefroy received the dead roosters-‘

Treville waves him off. He will not be distracted. And, as an aside, we all know they were meant for you.

Richelieu replies that it is an old story. One that was barely worth his notice at the time beyond a means of making an example of the king’s power and jurisdiction in maritime affairs. An example of the king’s power? Treville laughs. Your power, more the like. And I highly doubt it was simple.

‘It was, though.’ Richelieu insists. ‘But I will admit, perhaps the fallout from it has not been. It was a few years ago. Two Portuguese ships ran ashore near land owned by the duke d’Epernon. He, of course, staked his claim on them however in truth they belonged to the crown. I sent Godefroy to deal with it.’

‘And the outcome?’

‘We won. If winning is the right word. Epernon was not best pleased.’

Treville, ‘no, I can’t imagine he was.’

Richelieu shrugs. ‘Not my job to make him happy. He’s a supporter of Marie de’Medici, of course.’

‘Do you think him involved in recent events? His son is in Paris. The foul one who wants to marry your niece.’

‘Everything to do with the Epernon family is foul.’

To this the captain has nothing to say. If Epernon is connected, and their land is in Gascony-

‘I could have my men look into it.’

Richelieu sits up, ‘please no. I need delicacy. I’ll call on your men when I need a hammer.’

‘They will be in the region to see if there is any Spanish movement. Might as well have them look in on it. Porthos could do it, he has a little more tact than the rest. Though, D’Artagnan is from there which is to our advantage when getting dirt.’

‘Oh fine. Since they will probably do it anyway.’

A grin. Richelieu rolls his eyes. He mutters, Must you get your way? Treville replies, I _never_ get my way. So this is a first. Richelieu isn’t certain if he should laugh at that statement or not. Treville is watching him with a patient look.

‘Oh,’ Richelieu snorts. ‘You’re having me on.’

The captain smiles. Richelieu feels as if the sun has come out and summer has arrived.

 

The conversation cannot remain always on business and so theirs turns from the unfortunate events of the past days to the more pleasant memories of childhood pleasures. Namely, Richelieu wants to know what Treville read as a boy. Was there something that had captured his imagination, created a passion, somehow shaped and produced the man who is currently sitting in front of him? Are there words he turns to in hours of darkness?

Treville finds that he does not have an answer. He colours and says, ‘I was never one for the books. Not the way others take to them.’ He thinks he must supply something so says that he always liked Virgil. Hastily he adds, ‘and yourself?’

Richelieu thinks, I do not want to speak of myself. I want to know why Virgil? Is it because the stories are of soldiers and sieges? Or did you like the poetics? Do you prefer Romans or Greeks or neither and only wish to read our current works but want to appear to have a cultured taste and so say Virgil?

‘For me? My favourite as a boy was Homer, although not the Iliad. I remember being affected by Loyola’s writings although I hardly ascribe to the Jesuit way of life.’

‘My father was keen on Augustine.’

Richelieu smiles. Treville looks away, out the window. He does not want think about that smile.

‘And what do you think of Augustine?’

‘I? Oh, I’m neither here nor there. My faith is rather simple.’

‘Really, captain? I rather think that there is very little that is simple about you.’ Richelieu moves, refills their glasses. Fabric brushes over Treville’s knees. The sound is loud in the silent room. Even the usual noises of court have died out at the progression of evening into night.

At some point a deck of cards is brought out. Richelieu speaks of the madmen and women who believe that the future is held in such things. Such trifling things. These are the same fools who believe that life and fate and destiny are written in the stars. That if you read the movements of the planets correctly you will be able to know what will happen tomorrow, tomorrow month, tomorrow year. It is all preposterous, naturally. He finds it a disgusting thought.

‘I cannot blame them.’ Treville first thinks he is being contrary just to be contrary – for this _is_ the cardinal. But that earnest look, that keen interest that he is finding is not as mocking as he once thought the look to be, begs an explanation. ‘I agree, I think attempting to conjure the future through bits of paper, or through the stars, is folly. But to want some surety? Is that not a wrong thing? And is that not all they are seeking – some stability in these turbulent times? With an uncertain throne, a possibility of war, the threat of drought and famine and plague? Who would not want something of a sturdy ground to stand upon?’

‘Do you?’

‘I’ve never expected one.’

‘But do you want one? As you said captain, it is something to hold to when the winds change.’

‘Doesn’t every man?’

Richelieu smiles, ‘that is not an answer.’

‘No, it isn’t.’

They play in silence for a few minutes. Treville collects a trick and contemplates his cards. The hand is neither here nor there. Very fitting. He is used to playing hands that are neither here nor there.

‘No,’ the captain says as he lays down a card. ‘I think I would find it too…dull? After a while.’

‘You have the musketeers.’

‘I do now, but they were not always here. And I was not always a soldier and only God knows what tomorrow will bring.’

‘That, my dear captain, is a lie. You not always being a soldier. Some of us are born with professions sewn into the skin. I think there always was a bit of the soldier in you and will be even when you retire to your family farm and yell at people to stay out of your fields.’

The image this conjures prompts Treville to laugh. He asks, Will I shake a stick at them? Sick some hounds on them?

Oh yes, Richelieu agrees with solemnity. Most probably.

‘What an odd notion of my retirement you have.’

Richelieu hums and nods. He watches as Treville collects another trick. This, he muses, is not my best game. The quiet returns and they both contemplate their cards. Richelieu, if he is honest with himself, cannot contemplate a life without the captain flicking in and out of it. More in, recently, than out. And oh yes they argue and snarl at each other and play the political game at court often more at odds than in alliance yet the end goal of doing what is best for France is a unifying factor.

This would be a swell time for the duke of Savoy to turn up, he thinks. If there is one thing Treville and I can agree on – other than no Marie de’ Medici – is that the duke needs to be strong-armed into his proper place. But perhaps this is not the best time for that unfortunate man’s presence. And look, he reminds himself, we have sat together for many hours now and have had a pleasant time of it. There is hope yet.

‘-but then I suppose allowing fortune tellers would next lead to allowing Protestants.’

Richelieu snaps back into the present. He mentally jogs through what Treville had been saying thinks: damn, Huguenots are in the conversation. Some of my least favourite people. He makes a face. Treville laughs.

‘Last time there were Huguenots near the throne we had a civil war or two.’

‘I was speaking more generally,’ the captain explains. ‘Fortune telling and pre-destination being oddly aligned.’

‘God forbid.’

‘I think He tried.’ A grin. It’s verging in cheeky. Richelieu does not allow himself to adore it.

Christ’s blood, Richelieu thinks, if this man were autopsied, for some horrifying reason, they would find he is made of better stuff than the rest of us.

An hour later Treville excuses himself and they trail through empty halls to a side door. No point in drawing attention to either of them in this tense court, this late at night, with unknown enemies around. Treville says, I will let you know as soon as I hear from my musketeers regarding Gascony. He wants to say, I enjoyed myself. You make for surprisingly pleasant company.

Richelieu says, Do that. And I will let you know of any developments on this end. My men are chasing down the usual Medici supporters. Broom. Rafters. &tc. Maybe a saint will fall out.

‘Hasn’t one already done that?’

‘Two, if you want to stretch a point and are feeling morbid. Saint-Denis and our Portuguese friend.’

‘Well it’s the third murder I’m waiting for,’ Treville sighs as he tugs his cloak into place. Seeing the cardinal’s expression he clarifies, ‘things happen in three.’

‘Oh yes,’ a nod. ‘I suppose they do.’

It is then they both become aware that they are standing close, that it is dark, that the hall is seemingly deserted although this means nothing about the reality of it being deserted, and they both clear their throats and say something about it being late at the same time. Treville steps back and puts his hat on as he bows. He does not look over his shoulder as he walks towards the garrison. He does not look to see if anyone is watching from windows. He does not think about this over much and reminds himself: ashes, pier, not where you want to be.

When he arrives back at the garrison he knocks on Athos’ door to make sure the musketeer was still alive and resting. A cat slips past his feet and stands in the middle of the room meowing. He recognizes Thisbe and wonders when the animal had followed him for she had not been at the palace.

‘Come here, Athos isn’t fond of you animals right now. Too much noise at night in the alley,’ he whispers scooping the creature up and depositing it on the floor once the door is closed.

His own room is a simple affair, especially after the grandeur of the palace. Although Treville is not one to be awestruck by finery, and in his own childhood had grown up with enough niceties, it is a shift from _there_ to _here._ His bed is serviceable and there is his desk, perpetually covered in papers, and his clothes. Work clothes, Mass clothes, one extra set.

And yet he is a count.

As a young man his father had insisted that he read the Church fathers if only to further complete his education. Although Treville had shown absolutely no inclinations towards Church or scholarship there had been an always fading hope of his father's that one day he would find the book, the treatise, the poem that would make a gentleman of scholarly leisure out of his son.

It had never happened.

But how do you explain that to a man who makes his life from lifting words from pages and twisting them around and around so when they are set back down they are different from where they had started although nothing has technically changed. Your highness I have changed nothing, Richelieu would say. And he would not be lying.

The garrison is quiet with three of his usual troublemakers gone and the fourth asleep on doctor's orders. Thisbe makes a bed out of his pillow and promptly sheds on it.

He has never pursued, or been pursued for he is sure this is a mutual dance of uncertainty - ah by the blood they _should_ be uncertain, they _should_ dance this dance until there is absolutely no chance that he has, for some reason, misread every single sign. That this is not just a normal, natural overture of friendship. That the cardinal means something else. But to the point - he has never pursued or been pursued by a man so wildly different from himself. With soldiers there is a pattern to the dance. There is a code and he knows how to read it well enough. With priests? Lord on high, where to begin?

Pushing Thisbe off his pillow he sits heavily on the bed and begins to pull at boots and belt and in a slipshod manner undresses himself enough to consider it acceptable to sleep. Thisbe makes a new bed in his shift. She sheds on it. Treville says, Well at least one of us is happy.

The cat yawns, stretches, arches a little, then forms a perfect circle and falls asleep.

Treville watches her for a moment before thinking, I am grossly over thinking everything and does his best to follow the cat's example.

 

 

Richelieu in the morning bangs into his office and yells for Godefroy. He is not in? Damn the man. Where is he? What is he doing in his counting house? Doesn't he know he works for Richelieu first, the family business second? Godefroy himself arrives not ten minutes later and chides Richelieu on his foul mood.

'This will get you no where quickly, your eminence. As a prince of the Church-'

'Oh enough. My apologies, I understand you have other obligations besides the safety and well being of your king etcetera. Don't pull that face. What news?'

'I harassed many people very early this morning before was proper. Epernon went to see our gambling master friend Fontaine. They've been very chummy lately. My source says that Fontaine owes Epernon money.'

'I thought the father not in Paris.'

'He's not. This is the younger Epernon. Your potential future relative-'

'You need not remind me.'

'Younger Epernon has Fontaine by the short and curlies.'

'That was an unnecessary mental image for this early in the morning Godefroy.' Richelieu rubs his eyes. 'Any news on Rochefort's movements in court?'

'Just the usual sycophancy to the king.' Godefroy takes a seat and adopts his usual sprawling position in the chair. 'You are not worried about that?'

Richelieu waves it off, for another time. Rochefort and Spain can wait. Tell me everything about young Epernon and Fontaine.

'They run in a crowd somewhat associated with the _devots_ but aren't as showy with their pro-Medici sympathies. I believe that Fontaine only does it for the look of it. Really, there's hardly a political bone in his body. He's fashionable, it's radical but safely so. Or was safely so. The Epernon family, though. As we are all well aware, they are more than enough pro-Medici to sink a ship of state.'

'Anyone else?'

'A few names. Bellevievre came up, but I think it is only from the association of Fontaine since he gamed with the man regularly.' Godefroy pauses, adjusts his cloak and considers the state of his boots. They are muddy. He does not approve. 'Should I...'

Richelieu looks to him. Should you what? He seems to say with his expression.

'Should I bring Fontaine to you?'

A smile. Vicious. 'That,' the cardinal chimes. 'Is a brilliant idea, don't you think?'

 

 

Away from Paris, riding through the countryside, three musketeers make their way towards Gascony. D'Artagnan is reminded of his father's death. The scenery and smells and feel of the sun brings it all back so the ache rests more alive than ever in his chest. Aramis is feeling split in half and is not sure he approves of the sensation. Porthos, determined, rides ahead of them both. What he is thinking of are memories of unrest and war and civil disruption. That is where all of this is tending. He can feel it with every bone in his body. Oh yes, there is something in Gascony worth digging up but Paris is calling. Singing to him with urgency.

 

Making a slower procession towards Paris, and coming from the east, is the company of Marie de' Medici. She wonders if this is how Cosimo _il Vecchio_ felt when he returned to Florence after the Strozzi exiled him and his own. She wonders if this is how Lorenzo i _l Magnifico_ felt. That is the thing, she knows, the Medici may be exiled and driven out of a city but they have made their family's blood and livelihood in knowing how _to get back in_. The French court assumes her exile to be permanent. No Italian court would be so foolhardy.


	6. Chapter 6

To see a man crumble is never a pleasant sight. It unsettles. Disturbs. Richelieu watches with a calm expression but finds the guilt, the over whelming fear on display before him a little much. And not a single hand has been laid on the man yet.

What a thing the shadow of a presence of threat can do to a man. Unwind him from his core.

Fontaine is giving him information. Too much information he thinks. It is a pitiable thing and Richelieu pities the man more for what is more shameful than to be merely pitied?

‘I owe him and his father and have done so for several years now.’

The majesty of his house? The finery he wears? The airs and bravado? All purchased with Epernon credit. What money does he gamble with, then? Fontaine has the grace to look ashamed. Does the cardinal really wish to know? Oh yes, the cardinal very much wants to know. Epernon money, then. And a few others beside.

‘How did you get into such a mess?’ Richelieu almost feels sorry for the man.

‘He found out something. The son, not the father. Old man Epernon is too much a has-been and does attempt to have some honour or at least the appearance of honour.’

‘Do you think it wise to call your creditor a _has-been_?’

Fontaine shrugs. He has moved drastically from frightful to fretful to ashamed and is now fronting as if it all means nothing to him.

‘It’s true, isn’t it? Marie is no longer around.’ The younger man’s eyes slide from the cardinal to the window behind him over to the fire to Godefroy looking amused and lounging against a wall. ‘How does a former-Calvinist manage to make more than a good Catholic son like myself?’

Godefroy, ‘God works in mysteries ways. Perhaps it is a reward for my conversion. Or is that still a Calvinist thought? That one’s worldly wealth represents one’s standing with Him up There?’

This does not appear to comfort Fontaine. Richelieu waves the conversation away. This is not the time for theology. This is the time for earthly matters.

‘What did Epernon have on you?’

‘I’m not sure I should tell you.’

‘If you don’t I’ll get it from him. It’s much more in your interest to be open with me. I am always in need of people with useful positions in court.’

Godefroy perks up, ‘he can’t have my job!’

Richelieu ignores his spy and master of finance and is instead intent on Fontaine. The man shifts. Groans and slumps forward. Fine! Since you will get it anyway.

‘I had a dalliance. With a lady. It resulted in a child, as such dalliances usually do and she wrote me of it. I did the honourable thing!’ He sees their mutual expressions. ‘I promised to pay for it, to acknowledge it as my natural child! Truly. But,’ here he casts his eyes about. Searching for door and window and fireplace and other human contact besides the firm stare of the cardinal. ‘My father, being a man of strong faith, believes my habits to be dissolute. He’s not wrong but I can’t help it. I cannot be an aesthete as he is. I cannot live the life of Saint Jerome or Benedict. This child would have been the last straw and he would have cut me off.’

‘So? What did you do? Secret them away somewhere?’

‘I gave her money and a name.’

It takes a second but then comprehension dawns. Ah. Even worse than have a secret natural child tucked away in the countryside.

Fontaine closes his eyes. ‘They both died.’

‘And?’

‘What do you mean and? I was devastated!’

‘I’m sure. Her and your child’s death but have been such fodder for your poetry or whatever creative endeavours it is you do to amuse yourself when not drinking and gaming. Women only exist to be muses for male creative work, obviously. But what proof was left? What did Epernon get his hands on?’

‘I play the lute, since you must know. There were some letters from Annabelle and from the person I sent her to.’ Fontaine picks at the chair arms. ‘Captain Treville came around asking about Bellevievre the other day.’

‘Yes.’

‘I said I told him everything. I don’t think he believed him.’

‘That is to his credit, then.’

Fontaine scowls. He says that the captain was most rude to him. That he trod in as if he owned the place. As if he outranked him! A pause, Fontaine amends: Well he does, technically, but that doesn’t mean he needs to flaunt it.

Richelieu blinks. The thought of Treville flaunting his title is absurd.

Fontaine gathers himself and returns to the point. ‘What I left out of my information to the captain was that Epernon asked me to do something. He gave me a vial of poppy-juice and said that I was to give a few drops to Bellevievre when he came and visited and once he was asleep I was to send word to Epernon. Once I had a man I have never seen before arrived and took Bellevievre away. Next thing I hear is that he was hung from the window of the Notre Dame!’

Oh yes, the cardinal sits back. And now Epernon has this on the man as well. Illicit affairs, procuring abortion, and aiding in murder. Quite the list. There are some people who never cease to amaze Richelieu in their ability to make a complete and total mess of their life. Fontaine is now up with Aramis on the cardinal’s list of “ _how_ did you manage to fuck up _that completely_?” It is not a very long list.

It beggars the mind, really.

‘Very well, anything else you wish to add? Shall Godefroy encourage your memory?’

Godefroy looks affronted at the suggestion that he would do violence unto another person. Fontaine, however, is insistent that this is everything he knows. That Epernon wanted Bellevievre drugged and that he almost certainly hired the unknown man to cart off the unsuspecting person. As for Brisebois, Fontaine knows nothing but he speculates that the cause of death was the same. Namely, Epernon.

‘But to what purpose?’

Fontaine shrugs. Is there a woman involved? That Madame de Rivelle? Bellevievre was seeing her metaphorically, literally, biblically – all the ways possible. Perhaps Epernon was a rival for her affections. Brisebois, too? Fontaine considers then shakes his head. She is a pretty woman to be sure, but not pretty enough to have three men willing to kill each other off for her.

At the door Fontaine turns and says, ‘you might not be too amiss in asking after Robert Couvier.’

‘Couvier? The name is familiar.’

Fontaine’s turn for a vicious look. ‘It should. The king executed his brother after Marie's attempted coup. November was a foul month that year.’

Godefroy drops some coin into Fontaine’s waiting palm and shuts the door in his face. Turning he finds the cardinal thoughtful. The banker says that he cannot decide if he likes Fontaine or not. Generally, he is tending towards not.

‘Oh he is a sorry excuse for a person.’ Richelieu agrees. ‘But useful. Everyone goes to his house to drink, gamble and gossip. He is a useful person to add to the payroll. It’s very remiss of me not to have thought of him before. Might have saved us a world of trouble.’

Godefroy is doubtful on this but does not push it. What now? He ask while sliding into the recently vacated chair in front of Richelieu. 'Shall I bring in Couvier?'

The cardinal shakes his head, 'not yet. That would ruffle things too much. I want you to keep an eye on him. Or have one of your many cousins do it for you. Whichever is more convenient.'

'Cousin. Couvier would know me as your man. He does not, however, know my cousin Jean-Marie. I'll arrange it.'

'Good.' Richelieu leans back and pulls papers forward. 'I will be to court in a few hours. Describe your cousin for me so I know which one he will be.'

'In livery, I'll get him up in something innocuous. Young, not yet twenty, dark hair and eyed. A noble nose and firm chin. He's perhaps a few inches taller than myself.'

This is declared to be good, not too noticeable sounding which is ideal. Once Godefroy departs Richelieu waits for a minute before going to a cabinet to the side of the room and opening it pulls out the back and in the small compartment adds a few pieces of paper on Fontaine. It would not do for the man to forget to whom his allegiance now rests.

 

 

Treville to court. Early morning and he had woken with a sense of unease resting in chest. Buried in that spot between ribs, underneath the heart. It sits heavy. He had passed by Athos in the courtyard who was being fed a hearty meal by Serge whose philosophy towards wounded and ill was to feed them as much as they could physically fit in their stomachs and then to drag a priest in to pray over them. Athos, at least, had appeared to be enjoying the first half of the healing process.

'Don't manhandle the father he brings in,' Treville had said.

'I can make no promises.'

'Keep an eye out, since you're bent on ignoring doctor's orders.'

Athos had frowned. Something the matter? Something relating to Bellevievre?

Treville nodded, Something like that.

 

At court, now, and there is the king in the garden with Rochefort. The cardinal had just left for a meeting. Louis shrugs when asked what the matter was about. Something about finances. The cardinal and finances. He'd count every coin twice and still be intent on a third check of book and account. Louis pauses, he then adds that this is well and good in a First Minister. Since France's exchequer is not as healthy as we would like especially for the plans we have.

'What plans are those, your majesty?' Treville asks. Rochefort smiles cheerfully at him as Louis waves the captain to sit down.

'Rochefort has been telling me of some of the savants in the court of England. The great thinkers and writers that my brother Charles encourages. I wish to do the same. I wish to foster the intellectuals and artists of France. Surely we can produce our own John Taylor, our own Lope de Vega (even though he is a disgusting Spaniard and not merely English), our own Walsingham - oh who were some of the others, Rochefort?'

'Thomas Harriot was a mathematician, your majesty. Passed a little over ten years ago but his _Artis Analyticae Praxis_ was published a few years ago. A very smart collection of Harriot's thoughts on algebra and other mathematical miscellanea. In a similar vein there is William Oughtred who wrote, as I am sure your majesty will recall, the _Clavis Mathematicae_. The English are notorious for the excellent work in mathematics and natural philosophy as the Dutch are famous for their artists and engineers.'

Louis is nodding along to this with enthusiasm. 'This is just it, captain, I wish to encourage our people so that my son may inherit a kingdom rich in both glory as well as art and literature. That France may become first among the nations of Europe in all ways. Rochefort and I have been drafting some plans. What think you, captain?'

Treville says that it sounds very fine. That any sort of educational and intellectual endeavours must be for the good of the nation. It being no bad thing for a king to be remembered for more than just warfare, in fact it speaks to a greater mind and a grandness of spirit. Louis beams at him. Rochefort's expression changes from placid smiles to a brief flash of long suffering amusement at Louis' pleasure of having the approval of his favourite musketeer.

With a grand sigh Rochefort turns to Louis, 'I am very sorry your majesty but I must attend to some private matters of business and they cannot be delayed.'

'Oh? But you will return once they are complete?'

'Of course your majesty! Captain,' the count turns to Treville. 'I think you might be interested in a bit of business I have recently invested in. Shall we discuss it later? This evening or tomorrow the latest. It really cannot wait.'

'I am at your service, sir.'

'Excellent! I will call later this afternoon. Yes,' his expression becomes softer. A scheming thoughtfulness. 'I think it best if I call. Around the hour of None?'

This is agreed to and Rochefort bows and withdraws from the king and court. Louis is nodding to himself, content with his current situation as already the harrowing events of previous days become less pressing. He asks Treville for news on the case and the musketeer replies that they are following up leads and he has sent some men to Gascony for scouting but their news will be some time coming.

Louis then turns contemplative. He sighs, stands, 'walk with me captain. I'd have a private word.' They detach themselves from the courtiers and begin a slow walk through lesser-used hallways. Louis pauses in front of a portrait of his father. The resemblance between father and son is clear with the same nose, the structure of the face, the same frame. There is Marie in her son, but it there in the colouring, the shape of his eyes, some of his mannerisms. It is a resemblance that appears when you see them side by side where was, in certain lights and in certain moments, Louis is his father Henry through and through.

'I always wish I had known my father,' Louis says. He is still looking at the portrait. He rests a hand on the frame and to Treville it seems as if the king is attempting to draw strength, draw spirit from the dead.

'He was a good king.'

'Yes, I know. But I wish I had known _him_. My memories are faded and I cannot help but wonder which ones are real and which ones are things I wish had happened.'

Treville, uncertain of what to do with this confession, desperately thinks of something to say that is not an empty platitude. He draws up nothing.

'I sometimes worry that I won't be a good father,' Louis is now looking at him earnestly. Treville thinks, Why are you telling me this? I am not a father. That is a walk in life I have not taken. I am not the person to speak to. 'I worry that my son will grow to hate me the way I have grown to hate my mother.'

'He won't, your majesty. He will be raised by you and so will know your goodness. The true character of a person comes out when they are a parent and your true character is a superior one to that of Marie, your mother.'

In an earnest moment Louis turns and embraces Treville.

'I always knew you were a true a friend, captain.' The king says as he pulls away. His eyes are red and he is clearly attempting to restrain himself. Treville looks away for a moment to allow him to collect himself. 'The attempt on the queen and our child has reminded me of what I never knew. But God will protect us, I am certain, and our son is destined to be great. How can he not be?'

'I believe you are correct, your majesty.'

'I sometimes wonder if...but no, it could never work. She would try and use my son against me.'

'Pardon?'

'My mother, captain. I wish, sometimes, that there could be a chance for reconciliation. For us to be a family because Christ's blood, for all my siblings, for all the people around us, we never felt like one.'

This, Treville understands. Taking a liberty he claps Louis on the shoulder and says that he knows what the king means. 'Sometimes, your majesty, you have to create your own family and while duty and honour necessarily bind you to your blood relations, the family you choose to make of your friends will be there when it feels as if it is too much.'

Louis nods, he looks away and blinks rapidly. A moment passes. He has not looked back. At last he holds up a hand and says that he would like a moment alone, if the captain would not mind? I just need a moment to myself.

Re-entering the main hall he says to the waiting courtiers that the king is being private for a moment. Amongst the courtiers he notices a face he has only seen once or twice before. It takes a moment before the name is remembered and placed to the almost-forgotten face.

What the son-of-a-traitor is doing at the court Treville can only imagine. Robert Couvier catches the captain's thoughtful expression and sneers in response. Well, Treville thinks, I am pleased to know that he has lost none of his charm and grace since his father's fall and execution. Some things, in this ever shifting world, must remain the same. Couvier's obnoxious face and attitude is clearly one of them.

 

 

Bells from the holy houses of the city ring in None as Treville returns to the Garrison to find Athos and Rochefort at a game of cards in the courtyard.

Rochefort explains, 'I've been keeping our wounded hero company while you were with the king. I trust you left him well?'

'He was thoughtful and pondering the great responsibility of fatherhood.'

The count makes a face, 'better you than me for that conversation. That is a joust I hope never to partake in.'

'Not even for your family's preservation?'

A shrug. There is no concern for that. I have a younger brother, Rochefort explains. He has already had three sons. God preserve us. So the lineage is well protected and we even have a spare to dedicated to the holy mother Church.

Treville snorts and says that he is glad Rochefort has it all planned. Shall we? We can talk business in my office. Athos, you are to attend. How was the rest of Serge's attempts to cure you?

'Oh it was only Father Andre so I did not suffer overmuch. He kept to two prayers and a blessing of holy oil.'

'That was most kind of him.' Treville offers everyone a drink and once glasses, wine, and chairs are sorted he looks to Rochefort expectantly. 'I highly doubt you want to discuss investing in a mercantile venture so what is the real reason you wished to speak with me?'

Rochefort smiles. Treville does not like it. He notes that there are subtle differences in how Rochefort smiles. A shift in the expression behind his eyes, the tightness around his mouth and nose. He thinks it serpentine. Reptilian. Like the strange, archaic creatures of the river Nile he had seen drawn in manuscripts on the subject. Beastly.

'Glad to see you on point as ever, captain. No niceties. Very well. I am sure you noticed Couvier hovering around court today.'

'I did.'

'Strike you as odd, perhaps?'

'Very.'

Rochefort turns to Athos, 'is he always this communicative?'

Athos does not respond and Rochefort shrugs. Very well, I will be all business. He sips his wine to allow a moment to arrange thoughts.

'There is a plot in the works,' he begins. 'And please captain, correct me if I get anything wrong but this is what I have pieced together over the last few days. Two men who formally worked for the cardinal are murdered,' the smile again. The reptilian one. 'As a former employee of the man I am not surprised by their unfortunate ends. However, it is worrying since there seems to be a loose link to Epernon, correct? No reaction. You don't game do you captain? You have an excellent face for it. So perhaps not Epernon, but there is a Medici connection yes? A slow nod. Thank you. All right, so someone who is a Medici supporter is killing off cardinal supporters who were present on the humorously named Day of the Dupes. As someone who fits that description rather well, you can see why I am concerned.'

'You have the protection of the king. As you are both clearly becoming fast friends.'

Rochefort's expression becomes one of a cat who got the cream. 'I have that distinct honour. Don't worry captain, he still likes and respects you. But I don't think the protection of the king will keep me safe.'

'What are you trying to say, Rochefort?'

'I want to help you and the cardinal.'

'In return for what, I wonder.'

'An audience with the cardinal and your support since he does not trust me.'

'And what do you want from the cardinal?'

'A seat on the king's council. A nice cushy one, preferably. Richelieu can gauruntee me that more than the king can since we all know who really holds the reins of government.'

Treville tilts his head. Contemplates the man before him and thinks that while he does not trust Rochefort as far as he can throw him it is also not a time to be picky in your allies.

'Very well, but what service are you offering?'

Rochefort sets his glass down and spreads his hands. 'I will spy for you, of course. I have put it about that I dislike the cardinal and while that is not an untruth, something my friend Athos here and I have agreed upon.'

Athos makes a face at the statement of 'friend'.

Rochefort continues, 'I do not want a Medici-faction controlled court any more than you or Richelieu. I'll get in with Couvier and his friends and will report back what I learn. This is all assuming his _red eminence_ agrees to my terms.'

'And if he doesn't?'

'I will remain neutral.'

Treville gives a slow nod. Very well, I will arrange a meeting. Tomorrow most likely. Rochefort claps his hands together and stands. Thank you, captain. I feel that this is the beginning of an important friendship.

The count departs and Treville waits for a few minutes and lets Athos stick his head out to check that the man has truly gone.

'He's a snake,' Treville says to Athos. 'But I think he might be useful in this case.'

Athos' face is a mix of emotion. 'Yes, I would agree that he is not to be trusted in the way that most courtiers are not to be trusted. But I think he might just be your average self-serving spy. And he dislikes the cardinal, so that's something.'

Treville's smile is wry. Funny, he says, how things turn out.

Athos is not sure how to respond to this so pours them both a second glass of wine and asks for an update on the Bellevievre case.


	7. Chapter 7

When Treville walks into Richelieu's dedicated office in the Louvre the cardinal is bright. When Rochefort follows after the cardinal is sour. The switch is comical. Treville looks out a window for something to do as he composes himself and distinctly does _not_ smile. This is not the time for amusement.

'Captain,' Richelieu stands. It is a sweeping gesture for he is a tall man and there is grandiosity to him. 'And count. How pleasant. To what do I owe this pleasure?'

Rochefort, unwilling to begin, merely looks to Treville who, also unwilling to begin, stares at the window until really, behaving as an adult becomes a necessity. Treville clears his throat and briefly explains the situation. That Rochefort wishes to spy for them in exchange for a seat on the king's council.

'A nice comfortable one,' Rochefort adds. 'I'll have a short list of options drawn up for you if you'd like.'

Richelieu makes a face at his former spy. Why, he wonders out loud as he sits back down, should we trust you? You who escaped a Spanish prison and bring us false news about their boarder movements in some sort of ill thought out attempt at making a space for yourself in court.

'Perceptive as always, your eminence,' Rochefort smiles. He gives a mock bow. 'However ill thought out my feint might have been, it does seem to have worked. And three of the captain's musketeers are on a well-earned holiday! I always do hold that in life it is not really skill that matters so much as luck and charm.'

'Well you have one of those qualities, it seems.'

'I always knew you thought me charming.'

Richelieu curls his lip but before he can snap something back Treville is speaking. The cardinal stops. As does Rochefort.

Treville, standing between them, is saying 'Gentlemen this is not the time. There is a Medici plot that we have to get to the bottom of and since my men, as you quaintly put it, are on a badly-timed _holiday_ we need to work as efficiently as possible. And no more wild goose chases.' A finger is waved at Rochefort who shrugs. The shrug could say many things but mostly it seems to indicate 'I suppose, if you insist. For now.' Treville sighs, turns back to Richelieu. 'Rochefort will infiltrate Couvier's faction at court, discreetly so as to not alarm the king or queen, and will report back what he finds. That is his offer.'

Rochefort, all smiles again, 'I like the sound of "minister of the exchequer".'

'Keep dreaming,' Richelieu snips. 'You will be admitted as a _grande_.'

'Naturally, but which great office do I get for my service?'

'If you _successfully and without fault_ complete this task and help us rid the court of these Medici sympathisers I will perhaps take it under consideration to appoint you -'

'Marshal of France?'

'You have no military experience that would warrant that position going to you.'

Rochefort blinks, 'when has that ever stopped someone from being bestowed a great office?'

Treville returns his gaze to the window and does his best to not be amused. Richelieu glares at Rochefort.

'I am attempting to make a better France. One with an effective government and so I only want men on the council who are capable. How does First Equerry of France sound?'

' _Horse master?_ '

Richelieu nods.

'If I'm to be in charge of horses I want to be the Grand Squire.'

'You are not of the House of Lorraine. First Equerry can be made available, however.'

'Will I be able to sit on the council?'

Richelieu nods and says that yes, such a thing can be arranged. It is an illustrious role. Shall I consider everything in order? Good. Anything you hear that is of import please report to Godefroy who will be showing you out and will explain other miscellanea as he sees fit. Rochefort bows to Richelieu and Treville, thanks them for their time and says that he hopes to have a first report within a matter of days.

Once he is gone Treville takes a seat and the offered glass of wine.

'I'm surprised you gave him an offer that is so close to the king.'

'If he is close to the king that means he is also close to me and so easier to keep an eye on. I will say, even if I do not trust him regarding my own personal safety, I do trust that he wishes the king no harm. Quite the opposite, rather.'

'Was he a good spy when he first worked for you?'

'Oh yes, one of the best. Which was a problem and will be so again. But I will worry about that when this mess is sorted. Any news from your men?'

Treville shakes his head. No, nothing yet. And he doesn't expect anything for a while. Gascony is not close to Paris by any stretch of the imagination. He stops, frowns, thinks to their last conversation then pushes it aside. This _isn't the time_. He wants to shake the man in front of him. Why can you not be as simple and clear as a soldier? Why can this not be the dance I am used to with the signs and gestures of men at arms?

_Priests._

'The king wishes to grow our own Harriot and Tallis.' Treville says for something to say.

'Good,' Richelieu blinks. He seems to stutter back into the present. 'As well he should. I'd rather have a king concerned with the flower of intellectualism than a king who wishes to wage war. One is a decidedly cheaper path to greatness. And really, it is time for France to outshine the Italians and Dutch.'

'He seems to be keen on out-doing his brother Charles of England.'

'That's only because his sister keeps writing to him about the great English court and how it is a gem and so on and so forth.'

Treville thinks on this and believes that Henrietta-Maria writes a good deal more than just what is the latest gossip of the English court. There are rumblings in their island neighbour and he wonders how long it will be till they erupt.

Richelieu, appearing to guess the nature of the captain's thoughts, says, 'I don't think things will be peaceful for very long over there. Henrietta, though - well, we could all wish for a more discreet woman of Catholic belief in contentious, stiff-necked Protestant England but that is not what we are working with, unfortunately. She means well but picks her battles poorly.'

'Being unpopular does not help I am sure.'

'No, it certainly does not.'

They ruminate upon the unfortunate Henrietta-Maria for a moment before Treville sets down his glass and says that he had best be off. Things to see to and Athos is probably reopening his wounds as we speak in an effort to make himself useful. Richelieu wants to say, Stay. Sit a little longer. I want to hear your opinions on England, on Spain, on Florence, on Austria but cannot for he has no reason to ask it of the captain.

'Shall we have our usual evening comparing of notes?' Richelieu offers. He knows he has never been very good at denying himself things.

'Sure. Although I doubt there will be much to discuss.'

'I disagree, captain. With you there is always something to discuss. Are you off to court?'

'I am, then the garrison.'

They shake hands.

'I will be along presently, should his majesty inquire. We have taxes to discuss then court jurisdiction issues.'

'I'm sure the king will be thrilled.'

The cardinal gives a short laugh of agreement as Treville leaves. But Richelieu can feel warmth lingering in his hand and he tells himself that this will only be a wretched purgatory for a little longer. Just to be sure. Just in case. Because, he thinks, I will not risk my life for naught and I will not risk his good opinion — well, his not-as-bad-as-it-once-was opinion — for naught.

It is only a matter of an hour later when Godefroy comes crashing into Richelieu's office. He finds the cardinal at work with the rolls of exchequer open and beside them an old copy of Virgil. Richelieu looks up, alarmed, what is it? What is the matter Godefroy?

The banker-spy can barely get it out between breaths.

'It's Marie de' Medici, eminence. She's just entered the city!'

 

 

If Richelieu cursed Godefroy cannot recall the exact words but there had been a long string of them and most of them would make the Devil blush. He strides out hollering for others - where is Fontaine? My new addition to the payroll? Oh there you are...are you hung over? Good lord have mercy on me. Where are my red guards? Get to the king and do not leave his side for anything. The Beast of the End Times could arrive and you are still not to leave the king's side. Godefroy goes off to rally the other Richelieu supporters and harangue them to court. If Marie is in the city and making her way, boldly, brazenly, to the Louvre then she will be met with the welcome she deserves.

'Cardinal!' Louis, anxiously grabs at Richelieu's sleeve. 'Thank the Lord you are here. My mother has decided to show herself! Has _dared_ to show herself! Here! In _my_ city!'

Richelieu nods along and sees Treville present with additional musketeers and a facial expression best described as _not pleased._ Their eyes meet. There is an unspoken understanding. Such a few short days since the Notre Dame murder and they have come so quickly to understanding one another. In another, another place, Richelieu would have been pleased.

'Your majesty I would suggest treading carefully here for she pretends to come in peace and does have supporters outside of France.'

'I shan't see her!'

'That is wise. Perhaps invite her to be a guest for a while but be busy and so she will never see you and it will buy us time to construct a reason for her to leave.'

Louis swallows, spins to face windows looking out to the gardens just waking up with the spring. When he turns back he has composed himself and is calm.

'That is a good plan. That is well thought out, cardinal. I will - I will be at the archery butts with Leclerc and others. But say that I am kept in with work. That I am too busy with affairs of state to see her should she ask. Captain Treville! Will you shoot with me?'

The musketeer bows and says it would be a pleasure. A fraction of Richelieu's mind relaxes. At least the king will be with musketeers and Leclerc, a fool and an idiot, is no friend to Marie de' Medici.

Louis, again spinning on heels to face the cardinal, 'if my mother asks, remember, I am unavailable. The queen, too. Anne will not see her for I will not have her put under even more stress at such a time. Oh,' he stamps a foot. 'I wish she were dead.' He glares defiantly. As if to challenge anyone to call him ungrateful and un-Godly for wishing such a thing upon his mother. 'See to that woman, cardinal. I will speak with you after. Come, captain! We will shoot!'

 

 

Marie enters the Louvre with only a female companion. She is wearing simple clothes. Black of a widow but with pearls. There are Medici balls embroidered into her sleeves but her gown, worked through with the Bourbon crest, is almost resplendent in its understated simplicity. She curtsies low to Richelieu and the other councillors. None present are her friends.

'I have come to throw myself upon the mercy of my son,' she says. Her eyes are lowered. She looks everything like a penitent Madonna.

'Have you?' Richelieu asks. 'And why should he trust you? Why should the king believe you?'

'I only wish to heal the rift that I — I in my greed and my blindness, my hateful selfishness, have caused. I will own every ill I have ever wrought against my son and this fair country of France.'

'A pretty speech,' Louis Phelypeaux mutters. As member of the king's council and secretary of state for Protestant Affairs Richelieu knows Phelypeaux to have the most suspicious mind in all of Paris. 'But I have a good memory, madame, and I recall you saying such words before and it only caused trouble.'

Marie sinks into another low courtesy, or perhaps she just sinks to the floor, it is hard to tell for her gowns, but the movement is slow and stately. Her eyes close. There are tears on her cheeks. Richelieu watches the show and thinks her a brilliant actor. There can be only one reason to arrive now, to show her face and risk execution now, and that is to get her hands on Louis' heir.

'The king cannot see you, majesty.' Richelieu says once he feels that her act has ended. 'He is busy with affairs of state. You will be given a room as will your attendants. The king will decide your fate and tomorrow his decision will be relayed to you.'

With the aid of her lady and gentleman companions she rises from the floor and accepts Richelieu's speech with grace. She pauses, pulls a rosary from her sleeves and steps forward to the nearest council member who happens to be Phelypeaux.

'Please,' she begs. 'Give this to my son. My king. As a token of love and esteem and proper piety from his mother.'

Phelypeaux recoils from her but keeps the rosary. With a shrug he hands it to Richelieu. It is treated as if it be a profane object and Marie, in silence, is led from the room.

 

 

Twilight hours spent in contemplation. With evening mass complete Richelieu is alone in his make-shift study at the palais-cardinal. He thumbs through old volumes of church doctrine and wonders what Augustine would make of this situation. This tableau that, in some circles, could be called a farce. All of it a farce. Marie's plans, mysterious and still veiled from his eyes, at the end will be nothing more than a small shift in the grand line of human history. His own plans for France are no more or less than hers, merely different. Sometimes, even, they are the same. Which makes the farce even worse.

If the state is a body and the king the head the first minister is the core. The center that holds the body together that keeps each aspect in line and balances humours so illness does not creep in. And if it does? He instructs the head as to which bits must be cut off. The right hand to do the cutting is the captain, the left hand that does not allow itself to be seen or known that instructs the head is still he, Richelieu. The left hand that does not allow the right to see what it is doing.

Although that is shifting. Changing. Soon the metaphor, such as it is, will no longer have those rickety legs to stand upon and it will come crashing down and not all the king's horses and not all the king's men —

But no, Richelieu knows, hopes, that it will not come to that.

Paris will never be the New Jerusalem but that does not mean he does not work to make it as much like a city of God as he possibly can. Which, too, could be considered farcical.

Such a mood for such a time. Isolde, the cat, comes for a visit and plants herself next to her aptly named companion Tristan. They are in front of the fireplace and curled in perfect circles. Richelieu idly wonders where Thisbe has gotten herself off to for he has not seen the rascally beast in over a day which is unusual.

A knock. He calls, 'enter' and the door opens and in slips the captain of the musketeers looking exhausted and agitated.

'Athos is with the king. Or, rather, standing guard with both your men and mine. Marie would need a battering ram to get in to him.' Treville announces as he takes the offered seat. He nods to the books and asks if there is any advice for such times.

'The fallen city of earthly things "glorified Him not as God, neither were thankful, but became vain in their imaginations, and their foolish heart was darkened; professing themselves to be wise they became fools, and changed the glory of the incorruptible God into an image made like to corruptible man, and to birds, and four-footed beasts, and creeping things and worshipped and served the creature more than the Creator" or something to that extent.'

'Would the one who thinks themselves wise but are actually foolish be you or Marie I wonder.'

Richelieu closes the book with a smile and says that he will not hold with the captain using Augustine against him. 'Marie naturally, may the Lord darken her heart and so on.' He pauses then adds that perhaps there is one point that he disagrees with Augustine on in this chapter. 'He says that in the other city, the heavenly city, there is no human wisdom but only godliness. I think there might be a logical fallacy happening for is it not wise to be Godly? And did not God bless us with wisdom? How we use it being the entire lesson.' This thought lingers for a moment before Richelieu waves it away. Treville is watching him with a patient expression. Richelieu suddenly wants to back track for what a way to attempt to begin an understanding of sorts than with dry quotes from the City of God on the nature of a godly city and an earthly city. Treville doesn't want to hear that he is certain.

'Anyway,' Richelieu hastens to say. 'It is not relevant in any real way to our present circumstances. Has our questionable spy reported anything to you?'

'Nothing beyond a mention that Couvier has taken the bate and perhaps you should call off the man tailing him.'

'Oh yes, that would be Godefroy's cousin. Do you think we should trust him enough to leave him to his own devices?'

Treville shrugs, 'you know him better than I. What think you?'

'I think him certainly up to more than what appears but at the moment Marie is the greater risk. His fortune relies upon the friendship of the king. As it does for us all.' Richelieu stands, motions for Treville to follow him. There is a more comfortable room than this with fewer drafts and decidedly less dust.

They decamp down unfinished halls and to an area of the building that is clearly intended to be more private than the formal study and rooms Treville has seen thus far. Setting up in front of the fire Richelieu offers wine and refreshments. Has the captain eaten? Finding he has he Richelieu thinks it just as well. Fewer servants in and out.

'I meant to ask during our last conversation, why Virgil?'

Treville snorts. 'I worry I'm giving you the wrong impression. I never took to scholarly pursuits the way you did. I merely found Virgil the most tolerable of things I was forced to read. I like Amadis de Gaul, I've only read Essarts' translation, and Nicolas de Montreux. Our Roman forefathers never resonated.'

'You and our late king then with Amadis.' Richelieu wonders, briefly, if Portugal and Spain will never stop plaguing him. 'And I detect a theme.'

Treville smiles and replies that it is much the same for Richelieu. A theme in one's interests is not uncommon. And Montreux wrote more than pastorals and adventures. There are a few tragedies and comedies as well.

Richelieu asks, 'I'm assuming you've read _l'Astree_ then, or at least parts.'

'Are there people who haven't?'

The cardinal laughs and is grateful that there is at least a topic they can discuss for more than a minute that does not involved politics or the state of France. Not that discussing such things with the captain is a trial but variation is no bad thing. Pausing to pour them both more wine he wonders where to go from this point. That Treville trusts him is still debatable and possibly always will be. That he at least finds some goodness in spending time with him is becoming apparent. So there is at least that.

Treville changes the subject and turns back to Marie. What could her plan be? Showing up with only two people. 'I highly doubt she came with only them. There are others, I am certain of it.'

Pulling himself into the conversation Richelieu agrees. 'Oh yes, I am certain of it. I've sent some men to discreetly inquire both in Paris and well as without. I'm assuming you've also sent men?'

'Hopefully they'll spend their time searching and not brawling with your guards.'

'My guards wouldn't rise to it.'

Treville raises an eyebrow. Richelieu attempts to remain as straight-faced as possible but cannot. He snorts, glances away and says that perhaps they should focus on their men behaving better in the future. The king _is_ growing weary of the duels.

Treville, 'no he's not. He finds them as entertaining as ever. _You're_ the one growing weary of them because it's your Red Guard always returning with wounded pride and bruised egos.'

'Not always.'

'Most of the time.'

'Would you put a wager on it?'

'I would indeed. We can keep a tally - at the end of next month see who has won the most of the illegal, most certainly not happening with our consent, duels.' Treville waits a beat as Richelieu agrees and begins to outline the rules for the wager. He wonders if he should point out the irony but sees that the cardinal is enjoying himself and so decides to not push it.

Once again they end the evening standing in an abandoned hall with the safety of the night around them and Treville has his cloak tugged on and Richelieu thinks blue a very fine colour but does not say so. Instead he says that they will speak in the morning and hopefully have some firm information to work off of regarding Marie, Epernon and Couvier. Treville is staring at him as speaks. It is not merely looking but staring. Richelieu knows that the captain has blue eyes but when he is feeling they are so very blue. They are, at this precise moment, the bluest he has seen in a while.

'Oh fuck it,' Treville says. Snarls, more the like, as he leans in and up a fraction and presses their mouths together.

Richelieu thinks, _Finally_. Then he stops thinking too much.

That the captain truly has to leave is still an issue. That he is expected at the garrison is a problem. A conundrum because Richelieu does not want to pull away and they are currently pressed up against an arch to the side of the door and Treville has a hand at the back of his head, in his hair and the other is pulling their hips together.

They break for a moment. Their foreheads rest together.

The moment is both very long and very short. It is both very quiet and very loud. It is both an complete overwhelming of all senses and a complete absence of everything.

'I have to go,' Treville whispers.

The sound jars. Richelieu nods. Neither move.

'I will be missed if I don't,' Treville continues.

This is true, Richelieu knows. Then musketeers will come searching and that is never a good thing. He kisses the captain again for something to do as his mind stutters from Latin hymns to an appropriate response.

Why was he thinking of hymns?

He doesn't know but he knows but it is all pointless because he is kissing the most obnoxious man in Paris and it's rather pleasant.

They part for a second time. There is the sound of fabric shifting as they move apart. Unwind from the shadows, from each other and they are adjusting clothes.

'Well,' Richelieu says. 'At least we'll be on the pier together.'

'I'd rather not go that far,' Treville replies. His tone is amused and serious. Richelieu adores it. The same as he adores the furrowed brow and the awkward smile that is given to him. 'Until tomorrow.'

'Until tomorrow.'

Watching Treville be swallowed by the night Richelieu had wanted to catch the captain's hand but knew that if he did he would not let it go and then where would they be?


	8. Chapter 8

Things do not move as quickly as one might think for such a situation : the queen-non-queen here in Paris. Her lips are those of Gaston. Louis thinks, My brother has our mother's mouth. It is the cardinal who adds, Then it is full of lies.

Louis, 'I was always taught you should not speak with your mouth full. Does that not mean, then, that my mother should not speak?'

To Louis, the cardinal falters. Deny a person words? Their very voice? Perhaps he imagines it being applied to him: do not speak with your mouth full.

Reduce a grown woman to status of child. It is done without a second thought. Louis kicks a chair, makes a face. 'I thought her gone, eminence!'

'As did I, majesty.'

'Do something about it!'

This is the trouble. Things move slow. Rochefort comes to him that morning, discreetly, 'nothing. No movement yet. She has arrived only today so this is not a surprise. Give me a day, maybe two. Epernon is waiting. For what? I cannot say.'

Richelieu snarls that he has half a day to a day. Take your time and condense it then you have the frame from which we will work. Rochefort thinks that Richelieu knows nothing about the elongation and shortening of time. Jail under Marie de' Medici is one thing; with the Spanish another.

 

 

Marie upon the bed in the room that had been given to her during her second coup attempt. She knows that this was done purposefully and is amused by it. Do they think to discomfort her? Do they think mere memories will cause her to falter. She is Medici therefore resilient. Tides come and go but the sway of the moon that causes them is not unlike Medici money swaying the courts of Europe. There had been a time, not too long ago, when most monarchs, and almost every petty prince, owed _something_ to house Medici. Now it is blood bonds and debts that hold the fabric of royalty together and so house Medici is stitched into the coats of nobility.

The memories, though, do come. As they must and they remind her what it feels like to have one's stomach drop down and pool between feet. Her family, after all, had raised her upon stories of stomachs dropping and pooling between feet sticky red the way entrails are because blood is sugary sweet, viscous. Fortuna is cherry red but the dark cherry red. The wine-red-cherry-red of the ocean. Homer wrote about this, once. He also wrote of the dead and dying.

When the Pazzi committed murder most foul against Guiliano de'Medici, younger brother of illustrious Lorenzo, the patriarch of the family was hung by the neck until dead from the irons of the window of the Palazzo Vechio. This disrupted the tides of Florence which had, until then, relied upon the push and pull of exile and return; coup and flight; inevitability of loss and regain. Execution for reasons of state was something the nobility of Florence had done and they had not seen such thoughts, such pretenses, since the thirteenth-century. But Pazzi blood was needed _per lo stato_ and so Pazzi men died. The patriarch was disinterred and his head used as a ball and eventually both were dumped into the Arno where, eventually, bloated corpse must have arrived upon the shores of Pisa where one can only assume it was eaten by dogs. So reads the lesson, thanks be to God.

       

Sometimes Marie remembers her husband and the woman she replaced, Margaret of Valois. Oh, if they wished to cause her pain put her in a room with her husband's insignia and the portraits of his mistresses and the sad mourning gowns of Margaret. How many queens is a king allowed to have? By Marie's count two is one too many. The transitory nature of power does not escape her and she wonders how many queen's her son Louis will have then laughs because it is only one because this reign will not last much longer. If only Gaston had been first. He is no impotent puppet. Potent puppet is what she requires.

But Margaret. There was something of that first queen of Henry's that sat well in Marie's heart and the reminder of her death, only five years after their shared husband's, struck home. She took it with greater feeling than Henry's. She knows she is blamed for this. She wonders who will feel her loss. Who will mourn her death. She does not think there will be many and she tells herself that she does not care. She is a Medici, after all. A Medici before she is anything else - before she is French, before she is a Bourbon, a Catholic even - she is a Medici. Her dress is woven through with silver thread and they are the balls of the Medici crest. Perhaps it had been too much to wear them here, now, but she does not regret it. All the children of France have Medici blood, now. And they always will. Italian blood rules French people the same as Italian language molds French language and Italian faith strengthens French belief.

Her maid enters, her sole companion on this voyage, and tells her that her bath has been drawn.

'Excellent, Francesca. While I am occupied I want you to inquire after the names I discussed with you previously.'

The young woman curtsies her assent. Marie disrobes with her help and sinks into the water. She contemplates what of her limited wardrobe she will wear the next day. She recounts the men she has hidden away outside of Paris. She dreams of her coronation.

In the Louvre gardens Francesca makes her way, attempting to see anyone fitting the descriptions provided by the queen. By the archery butts is a man who looks to be Couvier and with him young Epernon and another whom she does not recognize. Couvier catches her eye, she makes a sign, he takes leave of his companions and heads towards the roses. Taking a different route she goes to meet him.

'Francesca di Ricci?'

'Monsieur, at your service.'

'Robert-Martin de Couvier. How is she?'

'Tired but well. What news have you?'

He takes her by the arm and they turn towards a more secluded area hissing that he would prefer to discuss details with _her_ not that he does not trust mademoiselle Francesca it is only - less said the better.

'Roses are the ears of the cardinal. Statues bear his eyes. He is forever watching and listening. You see how it is, here, for us. Him everywhere, the king's pet hound Treville as well. Although he is not a man for intrigue.'

Francesca shrugs, 'every man has his price.'

'Indeed and Treville has his, certainly. But, what we are planning he would consider beneath him. Ask me about Cinq-Mars sometime. No, no Treville will come along to our way of thinking later. Do not worry about him.'

A courtier passes near them and Francesca leans into Couvier making their space an intimate one. The man smiles at them, moves on. She whispers, 'her majesty named the captain as a man to be concerned about. But you are right, this is not the time nor the place. Come to her rooms tonight. Meet me here at the hour of compline-'

'Compline? Little nun,' he laughs.

She scowls, 'nine, then. I will take you to her.'

'I will be here with Epernon and Rochefort.'

'Who is that?'

'Rochefort? A recruit. I will vouch for him. He, quite possibly, hates the cardinal more than her majesty.'

Francesca's expression is arch. 'Oh, monsieur, I doubt that. But I must go. Remember - compline.' She curtsies but her face is a sneer and Couvier cannot but admire her. Marie always knew how to pick confidents. The most alluringly vile people. He loves the queen for it. How Italian, he thinks. How divine. Dante would write eons worth of poetry on this Francesca and forget entirely he mere fancy of Beatrice. He laughs at the thought and returns to his compatriots.

 

 

D'Artagnan collapses beneath a tree and scowls up at barren branches. How has spring not come to its fruition yet? He wishes for shade. Sun beats down and he dislikes it immensely.

'I miss Constance,' he complains. Porthos rolls his eyes and says that distance does love some good.  Makes the heart grow fonder and all that. D'Artagnan sits up on his elbows. 'Do you believe that?'

'Oh yes, means you have time to forget all the terrible things your lover has done. Gives them time to craft new ways to antagonize you.'

D'Artagnan makes a face. That is not precisely what he is aiming for in his romance with Constance. Only, can her husband not drop dead yet? Do you think the Church would grant them an anullment? He puts the question to Aramis.

'Doubtful. Seeing as there is no impediment to their marriage beyond your being keen on her.'

'And she's keen on me!'

'Be that as it may, the church won't smile on it.'

D'Artagnan returns to his morose pose upon the grass. Porthos tosses him some food and tells him to eat up. They have a long ride ahead of them before they stop for nightfall and an even longer ride back to Gascony. D'Artagnan sits back up and does as instructed. Second day on the road and he is annoyed at himself for his emotions but does not wish to bring them up again. Porthos is contemplative. Aramis in a mood.

'You think we'll find signs of Spanish raiding?' He asks.

Porthos shakes his head, 'no. It's a goose chase this. Don't know what's going on really, but I don't like it and I don't like the captain and Athos being left in Paris. It reeks of the cardinal's games. Doesn't it Aramis?'

Aramis blinks, startled. The cardinal? Oh yes, terrible human being. Who died and made him God?

'That isn't what I was saying.'

'Sorry.'

'This is him being up to good is what I was saying.'

'God probably. But no-' Aramis shakes his head. 'No, no the murders in this sort of attention seeking manner. This isn't his thing. He kills people in alleyways and jail cells. Not out of cathedral windows.'

D'Artagnan, 'So we're out here chasing geese and our friends could be in actual danger?'

Porthos shrugs, 'looks like it.' He does not point out that this is how it is every other month for them since that sort of thing rarely aids a situation. Thinking on the few meetings with the king he was privy too, and being a great student in the many small and fleeting facial expressions of his Red Eminence he believes Aramis is more than correct in his assessment. He wishes he had more time to track down the clever fellow who does more for the finances of the crown than he lets on. The foreign one who dogs after Richelieu. He has a feeling that if they had had a moment to speak the two could have put together a far more reasonable plan than anything grand yet dodgy that was likely to come from the cardinal.

'Well,' Aramis stands. 'Nothing for it. On to the next town. Hopefully their inn will have fewer rats.'

'Hundred francs that it has more,' Porthos laughs.

'You're on.'

D'Artagnan, 'neither of you have one hundred francs.'

Porthos, 'safe bet then. We won't be poorer for it at the end.'

 

‘How many dead?’ Marie faces the mirror but the angle hides all expression from the men.

‘Two, your majesty.’ Epernon replies. He toys with the brim of his hat in his hands. ‘They were old compatriots of Richelieu’s. They aided him during both previous attempts at gaining your rightful place.’

‘It is not my rightful place, monsieur. I am merely attempting to do what is best for France. France first in all things.’ She turns around and is smiling. ‘Enough of the petty grievances, Epernon. You and your father will have time enough to resolve your disputes with the cardinal. What I want you to do right now is help me with the queen. I should know my daughter better. Do what you can.’ She dismisses them with a wave. ‘Wait- the new one, Rochefort. You will remain.’

Couvier and Epernon exchange glances with their third before bowing out. Rochefort waits, idle, by the fire. Ignoring him Marie goes to the desk in her room and withdraws a letter.

‘You were in Spain, monsieur.’

‘I was, majesty.’

‘On behalf of of the cardinal.’

‘Yes, your majesty.’

Her back still to him, ‘what precipitated this change of heart?’

‘Being left in Spain on behalf of the cardinal.’

She turns, a glimmer of a smile. Oh yes? Did he leave you there once captured? He does that with inconvenient people. But now you’ve returned unto France, fortuitous. Too much so. I dislike your face, monsieur, and I distrust your motives. You once taught the queen.

‘I did.’ He has not moved. Marie admires this. The man is better at arranging his face than the other two main conspirators. But then, Richelieu never did suffer fools. ‘You will not find anything on her.’

‘Perhaps.’

‘What would you have me do?’

‘Nothing. I know you not well enough to trust you. How do I know you are not working for Richelieu? Spain? I am no friend of either.’

‘Medici’s never were keen on Naples being taken away from them.’

‘Naples was never ours to begin with and never in our purview. If they had taken Pisa, on the other hand. All our dreams of attaining a port city would have been for not. But this is not relevant. We have other grievances with Spain though they are of no matter right now. France first and France is certainly threatened by Habsburgs. We are in their shadow and long to be free of it. You understand why I cannot trust you.’

He bows his head. ‘Perfectly, your majesty. Would you have me prove my loyalty?’

She is still by the desk and is as still and straight as a pine. Oh there is steel in her bones, iron in her marrow. ‘No. I have a nasty and suspicious mind. I would doubt you still. But you can perhaps serve a purpose for me. I have someone I need brought to me. Very dear to me this person is and I would have you get them into Paris.’ The letter in hand is thrust forward. ‘Read this. Now burn it. Good evening, monsieur. I expect results in two days time.’

Time, Rochefort muses on the notion as he leaves her rooms and takes discrete paths out from the Louvre. What a thing. It means little to him, really. He had felt rushed and harried and grasping before Spain but now free from that experience, living hell it may have been, he finds himself calmer than before. He snakes through allies. Takes some wine at a tavern. Finds some food along the way. Lingers by the filthy Seine. Troops over to the cardinal’s palace.

 

 

‘I’m here for his eminence.’

Godefroy, somehow still awake and present despite the late hour, shows him in.

‘Don’t you have a family?’ Rochefort asks.

‘Maybe.’

Unsure of how to take that response Rochefort ignores it and trudges into the room finding cardinal and captain eating. He smiles. ‘What a time to be alive, musketeers and church authorities getting along! I must leave Paris tonight but thought you would want to know.’

Richelieu motions for him to continue.

‘Marie has sent me on a mission which is peculiar considering she took fifteen minutes to tell me that she does not trust me as far as she can throw me.’

‘I always knew she had some sense,’ Richelieu sounds pleased. Rochefort is annoyed by this. Why is everyone at the palais cardinal being slippery as eels tonight?

‘I’m retrieving Gaston for her.’

Treville coughs on his wine. Rochefort thinks that he could not have timed the delivery better.

‘When do you think you will have him in Paris by?’

‘Two days. Evening. I’ll bring him in through the south and will send word to your man here with the possibly-non-existent family who is now scowling at me. Would you have me bring him somewhere specific?’

Richelieu is up, moving, pacing and has arm tucked against his middle and the other holding his chin. He shakes his head, Take him to Marie. Follow her instructions. Only send word that you have entered the city. Godefroy will be waiting. What else?

Rochefort pauses, says slowly, ‘she wants dirt on the queen. There isn’t any, of course, but I am concerned that in absentia of desired effects she will merely make some up. I love Anne as any good Frenchman loves his queen, but I am not blind to her lack of popularity. Rumours stick.’

‘Leave the queen to me. I will take care of that. You had best go so as to not attract unwanted attention.’

‘I am joyously looking forward to my seat on the council.’ Rochefort grins at Treville’s appalled expression. ‘Naked ambition is better than hidden ambition, captain.’

Richelieu rolls his eyes, ‘go, before Marie’s men catch on. It is Couvier and Epernon?’

‘Oh yes. It is them and her maid Francesca di Ricci. An Italian of no consequence.’  Rochefort bows. ‘Until later, eminence.’

 

The door closes.

 

Treville scowls at the space where Rochefort had stood. ‘At least he’s loyal to the crown. That’s about the only good thing I can think of.’ He catches sight of Richelieu’s expression. ‘What?’

‘Nothing.’

‘What aren’t you telling me? Don’t make us re-hash this conversation. I’m tired of it.’

‘The queen.’ He squeezes his eyes, rubs the bridge of his nose. When he opens them again the look on Treville’s face is endearingly concerned. ‘There is something Marie could conceivably find.’

‘What?’

‘Do you think me a superstitious man?’

‘No. Yes. Does it matter?’

‘I hesitate in saying anything lest Marie’s ears hear.’ He stands. He wants to tell Treville but also wants to keep him here for as long as possible and the news would not aid in that endeavour. How much is the safety of the queen worth compared to a potential warm bed? This is why emotional entanglements are left at the door when one becomes First Minister! He sighs. ‘The heir might not be the heir.’

‘What is that supposed to mean?’

‘It might not be the king’s. Do I have to be explicit?’

Treville’s face becomes one of horror. Oh God. We’re fucked. She’s - how? How could she? Why? _Who?_

Crossing to the other side of the table Richelieu sits in a chair, scoots it forward and, making sure no one is in the room, takes Treville’s hands. ‘Do not act rashly.’

‘You telling me to not act rashly gives me little hope.’

‘For everyone’s sake I need your word.’

Treville looks at the cardinal’s hands which are holding his and this is the first time they’ve touched since the other night which he has no name for and the knife’s edge they are walking along terrifies him. He exhales. Fine, he breaths, you have my word.

‘Aramis.’

‘You’re _kidding_.’

‘No.’

Treville pulls hands away and stinks his face into them there are muffled complaints about musketeers and libidos and decision making skills. Too much of one, not enough of another and oh my god how are we going to hide this? What are we going to do? What happens if the queen finds out? After the attempt with little Henri - He stops.

‘What about Henri?’

‘Nothing. I was just thinking - what are we going to do with her if she finds out?’

‘She gets a nice cell and never sees the light of day.’

This cannot hold, Treville thinks. This will not hold. With a snarl, ‘I am going to _kill_ him when he returns.’

**Author's Note:**

> I am not entirely satisfied with this chapter but I figured I should post something. It's a work in progress as I cannot write anything short, apparently.


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